


Destiny Do-Over (With Breaks for Coffee and Croissants)

by Kestrel_Sparhawk



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, M/M, Reincarnation, Violence for 1 paragraph
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:35:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12912051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel_Sparhawk/pseuds/Kestrel_Sparhawk
Summary: (AU Modern) Barista/Oxbridge student Merlin Emrys wants to study Magical Theory, but was rejected from that college. Now he merely performs lots of magic in a world almost drained of it, and studies Physics. And, oh yes, works his way through.At first, Merlin thinks the snarky notes from the coffeeshop's boss are just one more annoyance the universe throws at him -- why CAN'T he clean with magic? -- but then he learns that he and that prattish Day Manager have been given a chance to relive their failures. No, not the insulting notes. Their major failures -- long before they were even born.





	1. Not Exactly Meeting Cute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ambrosius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambrosius/gifts).



> Happy Holidays, Peaceful solstice, ambrosius! I went with two of your prompts, sticky notes and modern royalty, and I hope you like the result -- it ended up lots longer than I planned, because the plot decided to complicate itself. At any rate, it has lots of stickies, and I hope it fits what you wanted as a gift.
> 
> I want to thank the goddess of betas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey_hunter, for not only identifying most of my ridiculous number of errors, but also locating formats which allowed stickies and texting to look like stickies and texting, making the story I think look much better (and less confusing). Of course, any errors in formatting or writing are my own. She is the most awesome beta among a vast universe of awesome, especially considering she had a fic of her own to get in by deadline. I will ascribe credit for all others in the endnotes, merely stating here that I think A03 is a blessing for all fans everywhere. And of course, thank the mods for their complex work handling massive amounts of writers and readers and non-paper work so patiently.

The front counter is sticky, the floor is sticky, the CEILING is sticky. We have enough to do.

 

Who are you? And why are you telling me these lies? Everything’s sparkling.

 

They’re sparkling because I had the day crew use tsp and detergent and water and mops. Take that as your model.

 

The night crew is busy. Apparently the day crew has more people.

 

Of course we have more people. We’re busier ... The point is that cleaning is part of work EVERY NIGHT.

 

Who died and made you boss?

 

Finna, but she didn’t die. She and Alice own the place, as you well know.

 

Sorry, but you’re not the boss of the night crew. Have a nice day. Hahaha.

 

Why do you leave your admonitory messages on the fridge? That’s unsanitary.

 

The only thing I’ve noted the Nighties do right is move food in and out.

 

We call ourselves the Knights, not Nighties. Are you the Dazed?

 

Attn: NM. It has come to my attention that you do not use bleach for cleaning sterile spaces. This is against protocol. Please correct. –The DM, cc Finna

 

PROTOCOL? Do you think you’re the Palace Butler or something? We don’t use bleach because it’s a dangerous chemical.

 

In re Dangerous – YOU DON’T GET TO DECIDE. – The DM, cc _Finna_

 

You’re mistaken. We vote what chemicals we’re going to work around and risk putting in the food. Remind me never to eat at Sisters during the day shift.

 

You’re not supposed to eat the food here _anyway_.

 

Something else you’re mistaken about. You must have struggled in school.

 

You’re changing the subject.

 

Sorry. The subject is dangerous chemicals, inappropriate for any rational and forward thinking human being. If you learned the word “chemicals” in your Special School.

 

I did quite well in school, thank you for your concern. I bet I know more about chemicals than you do.

 

Probably not. I'm used to hard subjects -- I'm a Physics major. Have you been accepted to uni yet?

 

You little ... blighter, I passed Uni last spring. With a First. In Politics and Diplomatic Negotiations.

 

You’ve graduated, and you’re still working at Sisters? That’s kind of pitiful.

 

I’m taking a gap year. It’s none of your business.

 

Most people take gap years before uni, but whatever.

 

If you need help finding a job, we would consider taking you on with the Knights, but everyone working at night is highly trained.

 


	2. Sisters

Arthur finished the post-it note. He’d had to buy a new pad, where the notes were almost three times the size of the standard issue, to fit everything he had to say to that night nutter. No matter how much he argued, he couldn’t convince the night staff to do the day staff’s laundry. That was, frankly, laziness. The day staff had the rush. Everyone in Oxbridge came here for a light breakfast or lunch --the entire university was busy during that time. The night staff only opened at four – admittedly tea time, but most students were ignoring it in favour of a real (cheap) meal at some pub or American grease pit, and the faculty were having a cup of tea in their offices while snatching the last hours of the day. Night staff could put the laundry in the washing machine when they arrived, and dry it, before they even opened. This post-it explained who did the real work.

There was so much trouble with the owners, though. They were fine old ladies, who’d been together 40 years and more, and tended only to hire people whose sexual orientation matched their own, with a sprinkling of men apparently to calm Men’s Rights Activists. But when he went and complained to them about one of those men, they had looked uncomfortable.

“Aw, well dear,” Finna said awkwardly. “Merlin is a lovely boy, and the nephew of one of our best friends. I’m sure we should let him be.” 

Probably the type to bring them flowers or chocolates and flirt with them, he thought angrily. Thinks he’s too good to do his share...

Sophia nudged his shoulder, and he blinked as he became aware of his surroundings. She had come in today, eyes swollen with tears. Uncomfortably, he’d set her to making sandwiches, which kept her in the kitchen area, isolated from everyone else. She must have finished, and he’d lost track. Some days she was a hard worker, other days a little flirt ... but maybe he should ask her why she was crying.

He looked up, and saw a large table made up of the little ones pushed together, and various of the faculty of the College of Magical Studies selecting their chair and pulling it up. He watched Professor Henry Gaius start to settle himself into one of the side chairs. When Gaius saw Sophia, he came over to her. He held his arms open and she fell into them, sobbing on his shoulder.

Okay, Arthur really was missing something. He put down his list for what the day crew had to finish, and stood up to stand by the pair, awkwardly patting Sophia’s shoulder.

“You should have told me how badly you were feeling,” he began, and the Professor glared at him.

“Or I should have asked,” he added hastily, to avoid the glare. “What’s wrong?”

Sophia shook her head, and buried her face more deeply. Arthur looked at the professor helplessly.

“Her father died suddenly several days ago,” he said. “Quite suddenly – we’re not sure from what, a heart condition perhaps.”

Sophia had rearranged her hours with a couple of the others, and Arthur had thought nothing of it – most of the staff were also students, just as he had been when he started, and rearranging was always going on, especially at the start of term. Now he felt horribly guilty.

“Sophia, you should take a week off,” he said. “We can cover your hours.”

“I thought... I thought I could manage. After all, Dad has gone to the Good Place, just as he always wanted...”

Confronted by this unexpected religious certainty from someone he’d always considered a pagan, Arthur took a step back and regrouped.

“Yes, but you’re feeling lonely, aren’t you? You should be with friends, and not having to pretend you’re not upset when you have every reason to be. Sign out, and we’ll cover for you today, and I’ll call to get someone else to take your hours. Do you have any friends... ummm, to stay with you?”

Sophia nodded. Arthur’s observation was that she had many boyfriends, but that was her problem, really.

“I don’t know... Daddy had the money...”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll see that you get paid for leave. And if you need more, come talk to me and we’ll work it out.” 

One advantage of being a royal was that he had plenty of money to give away. He suspected Sophia would turn out to be an expensive protégée, but as long as she didn’t jump him the way she had when they first started, all would be well. Sophia’s unrequited love was Morgana, but she didn’t mind sleeping with whatever man showed up as well.

He handed her a package of tissues from his emergency store, hugged her, and sent her home. Professor Gaius was beaming at him. “That was well-handled, your Highness. Quite kind.”

“Please call me Arthur here, Professor. Right now, I’m just the Day Manager of Sisters.” But he felt a little pride when he said it. He hadn’t been born to it, after all. He’d been promoted because he had earned it. He did a damned good job, if he said so himself. No matter what his father said about it being beneath him, why not take a gap year after uni, and reassure himself that he was competent to make his own way?

His father valued no competence other than power, he thought bitterly. He was the most hands on and powerful King for many years. When the Prime Minister displeased him, he let it be known; in public, with oratory. The government usually changed hands after that, so Prime Ministers were less and less likely to stand up to him these days. Uther complained constantly about Arthur’s inability to stand up for himself, by which he meant, show equal force to the King’s enemies. Arthur tried, but sometimes they were right. His father was powerful, but by no means a powerful intellect.

His mother, now. Everyone knew she was the smart one in the family. She had been a Fellow when Uther met her, and now she was a Professor. Queen Ygraine had refused to give up her calling for a life of ceremonial brilliance, and Uther, who could intimidate even the U.S. dictator – erm, no, President – frightened her not at all. Presumably the King had blustered and threatened, but Ygraine remained an academic, and rising in her field. In her composure, she really was the Queen of Albion.

He recognized the faculty, and knew he’d see her soon – last after everyone else ordered their coffees and sat down. Ygraine liked to make an entrance. Arriving last usually decreed that the meeting was starting. Her faculty had met here before; he suspected it was his mum’s doing, because it gave her an excuse to check in on her son in person, and keep the coffers filled so that the old ladies who owned it would not struggle with his (quite lousy, actually) pay.

There was Professor Sigan, carrying two scones and a large mug of coffee to the table and settling in next to Professor Monmouth with some kind of friendly jibe. He winced, because Sigan’s sense of fashion was strong, but only appropriate for a professor of Hogwarts or perhaps Unseen University, minus the Wizard’s hat. Dark purple corduroy pants, a silk lavender shirt, and a velvet jacket cutting his skinny body right in two. Both hands had several rings, different coloured gems which flashed often, because Sigan talked with his hands. He wore knee-length boots, giving the impression of a velvet-covered peapod which someone had shoved two sticks in for legs. Arthur heard him say to Monmouth, “I hear we have some new kind of fancy artefact which might be magical, old boy. What do you think it is?”

But he didn’t hear Professor Monmouth’s reply, because his mother came in.

She looked regal, even in her tweed suit and comfortable shoes. Ygraine had never struggled with posture. She stood tall. Her smile was precisely gauged to show warmth, but no invitation to interact with her – her Queenly smile. Her bodyguard followed her in unobtrusively, and leaned against a wall near the front. He’d been here often enough with Ygraine he knew that the other door was locked to the outside, and that Arthur, as systematic as the family guards, checked the door when he came in and when he left. Huh. That was one thing the night staff was doing right. In the last few months, he’d never once found it unlocked.

Ygraine hung her coat over the chair next to Nimueh Talios, her best friend whom Arthur had seen many times at various palaces and had been taught, when small, to call “Auntie Nim.” Uther was not fond of her, and often made comments where his wife couldn’t hear about no one understanding the tastes of women, and he’d rather be shot than spend time in the same room with Talios except at dinner, but when Arthur told her this (his only excuse for tattling being that he was six) his Mum laughed, and said, “All the more time for us to discuss the men, then.” 

That, and magical research, and whether they might see magic return to the world, was all Arthur ever heard them talk about, so he tended to avoid their conversations too. Then, at 18 he’d gone up to Oxbridge and discovered that his mother was an amazingly well-read women in an extremely complex subject. He’d even taken the survey classes in her College, just to keep up. Most of his friends had thought of the College much the way they thought of Merion College, which specialized in Latin and Classical Greek – no doubt valuable to show scholarship, but hardly something modern students would care about, so it attracted a few nerds and many who had to show off a bit just to keep up.

Ygraine clicked over to him in her sensible one-inch heels, and kissed his cheek. “Hello, Arthur darling. Do you suppose you can find me a sandwich and coffee? We’ll be meeting through lunch, and I suspect I’ll need all the energy I can consume.”

He kissed her back and nodded. “Go sit down, and I’ll bring it to you. It’s pretty full in here today, and you’ve got strays looking at your table hungrily.”

She laughed. “That’s the value of Beddy, he’ll intimidate them away just with his glare.” Arthur had never found Bedivere intimidating, but then, he’d known him most of his life. Ygraine’s staff tended to stay with her permanently, unlike Uther’s, who were always transferring out.

He went to the backroom, every counter gleaming as he expected (or they’d hear from him) and made his mother her favourite: chicken salad, chutney and greens. He poured the American coffee, rather than get the barista to struggle with the espresso machine; she was under-trained, he thought, and the coffee wasn’t quite up to standard. And hadn’t been for months.

The notes he was writing to that irritating night barista should have copies to be distributed to his own staff.

His mother raised her voice as he quietly placed her food on the table next to her. He went back and made Bedivere’s tuna salad sandwich and cut it into triangles, the way Beddy liked it because it was easy to eat one-handed. When they were leaving, he’d hand Beddy’s sandwich over to him.

His mother had a running account which the Palace made sure was paid according to Arthur’s reports. The rules about not charging the Queen anything up front were honoured by Sisters’ owners, but Ygraine insisted they needed the money and made sure everyone got a good tip as well. Even Arthur, which was absurd. But he rather loved that about her.

“Let’s begin, and see if we can end on time for once,” she said. “First, what do we need to know before we select a new department chair?”

“Any administrative commitments we’ve already made,” Professor duBois said smoothly. Everything about him was smooth; his hair, his charcoal clothing, his ascot. Arthur had once thought his mum’s brother was the epitome of fashion. Arthur’s tastes had changed, but his uncle’s had not.

“Who would do the best job,” Gaius added, looking slightly contemptuous. Agravaine looked as contemptuously back. As Professor Gaius was wearing an old Greenham Common t-shirt and a worn kilt, Arthur thought Agravaine’s contempt might have a point. But then, Uncle Aggie had always been shallow.

“Who’s willing to take it on,” Dr. Smythe added. Elyan Smythe was young, idealistic, the newest faculty member, and brilliant. He had turned to magic because he wanted to save the world from its ever-increasing climate disasters. The old guard – the factions who believed there had never been magic, or if there had, it was dangerous and undesirable – loathed him, but avoided arguments when possible because Dr. Smythe could still remember everything he ever read or heard in uni.

Arthur turned his attention to the ice cream machine, which as usual when he came in was not in its component parts drying. He was going to have to write a very long message to the night crew; they not only had to soak it in bleach, but disassemble it to do so, and not put it back together till it was dry. His hands itched for a pen, but he was busy, as were the other three workers, taking orders and getting them made. 

Normally, Arthur would have had spare time, except during rushes, to do his usual inventory and ordering of supplies and other management tasks, but sending Sophia home had made the work a bit harder on the others. Arthur would never leave his team in the lurch. Besides, eavesdropping on the faculty meeting was not in the least tempting. If they’d been talking about magic now...

The next time he moved around their table, filling cups and taking away empties, it had apparently been settled that both his mother and his uncle were willing, able and – he suspected – wanting the job of chair. Arthur presumed his mother wanted it because she tended to talk whenever she mentioned her job about how disorganized the department was; artefacts which were years behind in labelling and could easily be stolen, faculty fighting for the same classrooms and convinced any allocation of them to others was a deliberate insult, constant complaint by the students about relatively minor matters like disrespectful faculty.

“They were insulted when they were young,” he remembered Ygraine explaining, as usual refusing to use an invented verb like “disrespected,” “and they think that’s just how you test your students. Well, the students now aren’t used to faculty having contempt for them.”

Agravaine, on the other hand, was holding forth on how new students still needed to be the best available, which by his description meant from prep schools as much as possible, well-dressed (he glanced at Arthur’s distant cousin Morgana as he said this; Arthur thought good luck with that, as she was dressed precisely as all the progressive young women at her unquestionably elite school had been) well-educated, and with at least the foundations of magic under their belts.

“Now, that’s a bit questionable,” Morgause, his mother’s other close friend in the department, objected. “We’ve been turning away students with some magic abilities in favour of students with theoretical training. If we were actually studying magic, instead of using it as an excuse for our own interests” –she glanced at professor Vivian King as she said this. Arthur had heard from Auntie Nim that the Creative Magic faculty were post-modernist theorists who liked to read myths about magic so that they could develop abstruse theories about its way of deconstructing more realist narratives. She called that area “the Creatives.” Vivian had spoken as a guest lecturer in his survey classes. Arthur thought she was bonkers.

Professor Sigan, who’d been whispering to Monmouth – Arthur had caught the words “new artefact” and “schedule an analysis” as he poured – jerked his head up at this. “There are students with magical talents?”

Morgause opened her mouth to answer, but Professor Cenred King (no relation to Vivian, fortunately) jumped in first. “There was one with the last group of applicants... or was it the group before? – who had a lot of tricks he could do – light, identify potion function, elevate a table – but ultimately, he had no training at all and would have started too far back.”

“I disagreed with that vote,” Morgause said firmly. “We are far too embedded in the theoretical, and it excludes students with practical talent – not to mention students from perfectly good municipal schools.”

“What was his potions talent?” Sigan persisted. “All the best-trained applicants can identify three out of seven potions by their scent alone.”

“He’d never had the training,” King said. (“Professor Douche,” Arthur labelled him mentally; when Arthur had taken the survey courses, that’s what the entire class had called him... behind his back.) “He smelled each of them and said what it would do, but couldn’t identify the original ingredients.”

“Then how’d he know what it would do?” Mr. Muirden asked diffidently.

“Parlour tricks,” King snorted.

“Magic,” Gaius said. Arthur knew his mother referred to him as “Gaius,” so must like him. “You know we should have taken him. There isn’t enough magic out there any more to turn down a genuine manifestation of it. When’s the last time you met a magic user? They’re on the BBC as performers, that’s it.”

“I know a magic user,” Edwin Muirden put in diffidently. Arthur had him pegged as one of the Creatives. “She can make waiters serve her first when she takes on what she calls 'glamour.' And is invited to break the queue by people standing there.”

There was a short silence, since after all the entire Faculty was British, and magically breaking the queue could be considered dark magic.

“Well, I’m sure we all know several,” Ygraine said cheerfully, bringing the conversation back on track. “After all, there are manifestations of magic here and there.”

“Or illusions,” Sigan grunted.

“Or, as you say, illusions,” Ygraine agreed. “Inexplicable illusions.”

“So far,” Bode Alator put in. 

Arthur supposed every faculty meeting ever went like this, with such powerful factions – those who thought magic had existed and wanted to bring it back to the world, those who thought there might have been a grain of truth in old fashioned stories which contained magic and thought it might be nice to pursue, the scientific group which thought magic was just unexplained science, and the “never was, never will be, and besides it would be horrible if it existed because the wrong people would have the power” group who seemed to move between those two positions constantly. Not to mention the Chair of Counter Magic, Sigan, whose job was to argue against whomever seemed to be winning. He seemed well-fitted for that job, since he never was agreeable and everyone hated him.

“At any rate, this is not getting us any closer to deciding what the chair must do, and therefore who it should be,” Ygraine said, and forced them back to a discussion of student complaints which put everyone on edge, and bored Arthur enough he quit eavesdropping and returned to his duties.

Almost two hours later, they were still there. They had actually reached the part where Ygraine and Agravaine were being discussed for chair. The shouting had gotten louder, with no acting chair to bring them back to order. Ygraine would then intervene, remind them they were in public, and it would get quieter for awhile, until an opposing faction made a claim so egregious the others could not let it go. Not that anyone but the faculty cared either way. 

Arthur needed to close up. He glanced over at Morgana, still sitting quietly behind Morgause, and jerked his chin.

She rose and followed him some distance away.

“They’ve got to get out of here, Morgana.”

“The meeting’s just getting focused, Arthur. It’ll screw it up to break it up now.”

“I have to close.”

Morgana thought. “We can let them stay. I’ll stay with them and be responsible till the night crew get here.”

“The opener is a crazy person,” Arthur warned. 

“Night shifters are always crazy. At any rate, I still have my key, so there shouldn’t be a problem. You can go.”

Arthur regretfully realized he’d have to leave his long note some other day. It had been far too busy. On the other hand, perhaps he could sneak in late tonight...

 



 

When Merlin unlocked the door, he was startled to see a group of academics gathered around several tables pushed together into a rectangle. That meant they had not been thrown out at 2 p.m. as required by the rules. 

He looked at them and found that his own occasional workmate, Morgana, dressed in her usual uniform of flannel shirt, leggings, and Docs, was lounging behind a blond woman dressed in black collared shirt tucked into black jeans, which in their turn were tucked into her own black Docs. The professor’s blond head was almost shaven except for a handful of spikes displayed here and there, but her eyeliner weight competed with a girl punk rock band.

Merlin now had a theory where Morgana’s recent hairstyle change (from severely pulled back to nearly bald) might have been inspired. Her softened face whenever she looked at the blond woman, who spoke often, suggested why. That also explained how they might have persuaded the stubborn Day Manager to allow them to stay; Morgana had a key and Sisters seniority, and the owners, especially Finna, had a soft heart for fellow lesbian scholars.

The others were an equally-identifiable academic group, presumably faculty in age, though one or two looked nearly young enough to be grad students. He knew several of them from his department interview: A surly youngish man with expensively cut hair, also dressed in black though less fashionably; that was Professor Valiant. Merlin’s elderly uncle Gaius, dressed in a very old t-shirt which read _Greenham Common Lives_ and worn blue jeans, sitting next to a remarkably well-dressed middle-aged man in a charcoal suit which fit him well, with a quietly coordinating tie (most would not have taken him for an academic). One beautiful woman, not quite 40, he recognized, and was a little awed: it was Queen Ygraine, blond hair precisely matching her often-photographed son’s, but braided into a crown. She was distinguishable for being the only woman in a dress (one of the male professors wore a gown, but that was less unusual) and it was flowered, soft pastel colours where black was neither an outline nor featured background, as if she were emphasizing her distance from the black-wearing women. She was also distinguishable because she was carrying an iPad and making notes as the conversation continued. Merlin thought it might be the first time he’d ever been in the same building, let alone the same room, as the Queen of Albion and Gramarye.

That was all Merlin could see before every face turned to him, as if they were surprised to see him there, standing in the doorway holding a key.

“Errrmmm, hi,” he said awkwardly, and instinctively turned to Morgana. “Shall I just go ahead and prep?”

“Merlin, hello, this is the faculty of the College of Magic Theory, and the DM told us we’d be fine to just keep meeting if we weren’t looking for fresh coffee or anything. Unless you felt like producing it?” Her voice was her pleasant, customer service voice, but she looked at him with her _You’re a worm and I don’t know why they hired a man anyway_ face. He’d seen it a lot during training, though they got along better now. She was probably warning him to act as if he were in the presence of the queen. Or faculty, which to graduate students would be far more important.

“Of course,” he replied obligingly. “I’ll make a fresh pot of Americano, shall I? You won’t want the espresso machine making coffees while you’re talking anyway.” He hoped that these words also conveyed the hint that there would be others coming in by 4 pm who would be all for espresso, loud hissing drowning out academic conversation or not.

“I’d rather have a latte,” Professor Valiant said. He would. Professor Douche.

“Don’t be disobliging, Monty,” the woman with punk rock eyes said, with an attempt at charm which fell flat. “Merlin, if you also heat up a pot of milk, I’m sure those who prefer au lait drinks will manage just fine. Morgana, if you’d just fetch the sugar?” Well, she was certainly intelligent, picking up on his name just from the way Morgana had used it in greeting.

“Of course, Morgause,” Morgana said, jumping up and switching to customer service mode. “This is such a long meeting, perhaps something from the bakery?”

Morgause waved her down. “We’re losing our concentration. Ygraine, dear?”

Merlin blinked to hear the queen of England called “dear,” but it was none of his business. He started his prep work as quietly as possible.

Queen Ygraine’s voice had a less crisp accent than those from Oxford. Probably she’d been to a finishing school or something. She sat at the end, and her eyes were earnestly focused on her faculty, who, surprisingly for faculty, listened to her.

“We were discussing whether our criteria for selection of students has limited our choices. Some prefer a higher academic potential, and others point out that the students admitted have all had pre-training. I’d like to just put a line under the discussion and issues it’s raised, and save it for another meeting.”

Merlin started the coffee pot and took a glass container of milk to the back counter to heat by magic, since some of his team were suspicious of microwaves and voted not to use them except in emergencies. He tried very hard to concentrate on listening as well as working. Ygraine's summary reminded him uncomfortably of how he’d been eliminated from consideration for the college -- he’d had no idea how to identify the components of a potion, though his magic could easily tell if it were poison, or a sleep med, or whatever. 

Professor Valiant had been remarkably snooty about it. “No qualified student fails to recognize the components of a sleeping potion,” he observed. Merlin had absent-mindedly called him “Professor Snape” in his response, which almost certainly hadn’t helped.

Merlin had never had pre-training. That was a euphemism for “private instruction,” since so very few human beings had the slightest trace of magic any more. In fact, the requirements for entrance did not include “magic potential,” which was fortunate for students, since no one showed much. There were classes in the private schools, because magic theory was trendy these days, possibly because of the Queen’s insistence on continuing in the college even after marriage and producing the heir to the throne.

Merlin had argued to the entrance committee that the ability to do magic might in fact be a qualification all by itself. His uncle Gaius, not on the committee, had taken his part, and sent a six-page letter which boiled down to: “Our mission includes investigating magical properties in various things, which should include people; and it also requires us to consider the implications of usage of magic. It wouldn’t hurt us to have at least one person who can actually do magic.”

The interminable discussion of the committee (which Merlin had magically eavesdropped on without guilt) also boiled down to simply, “We know various people who can do magic tricks. Couldn’t meet the minimum standards for knowing other things. Wouldn’t be of much use to us, and we likely would be of no use to substandard scholars.”

Substandard indeed. As if physics were a doddle. Merlin made his espresso and disappeared into the back room (changing room, storeroom, and locker room, with a tiny table and two chairs making it also the break room). He made sure that the voices in the front room were augmented so he could continue eavesdropping, but wasn’t listening particularly. He’d gone to a small school in Ealdor – well, the school in Ealdor, which by definition was small. There had been 50 students in his graduating class, and that was only because three other small towns bussed their students in for the final three forms. Before the internet, the only musical study was piano and voice – from the same teacher – and the only sport was football, played by both girls and boys in order to find enough for both teams. Where would he have studied magic? It wasn’t even on the “voluntary” list of classes which could be studied on the internet. Merlin knew that for certain; he had taken as much science and computer training as possible to qualify for a physics scholarship at a decent university. It had worked. But he had at the same time hoped that he would be accepted to the College of Magical Studies.

No, that was a posh school boy’s fantasy. Or posh school girl, though there weren’t that many girls, despite the faculty having several strong women scholars. Morgana, who never cared what people thought, and Sophia Aulfric, whose father was in the department, were the only two he knew. Perhaps most female students didn’t like the chemistry required. Or more likely, didn’t like the boys. He certainly didn’t, and he tended to like posh boys, for some masochistic reason.

But the men in the department were far too much like the male faculty, although admittedly on the average better dressed and more fit. They looked down on anyone not in their college, mocked the clothes, behaviour, and language of anyone not from the same schools as themselves, and were by definition unwelcome in Sisters, although of course the owners didn’t turn them away; they also had lots of pounds and Euros.

Merlin poured coffees and brought them to the faculty cup by cup. He placed the first by Ygraine (Sisters, despite their forward looking traditions, still followed the rule of serving women first. Or perhaps it was an exploitation of the rules to favour women. That would be very like Finna). The last went to Professor Douche. Then he sidled away to the back room again, this time to check that it was in readiness for opening. As usual, the dirty laundry from the day shift was tossed by the washing machine. That they thought the night shift had time to clean their laundry was aggravating. The unusual thing was that there was no note from the Day Manager. That was a pleasant surprise.

The raised voices caught his attention. All those voices with Oxbridge accents not quite modulating nasal fury, poorly held in control with harsh whispering and an occasional shout. There was Agravaine’s, somehow slimy: “I absolutely refuse to agree that the minority of goddess-worshippers on this faculty could represent the excellent scholarship most of us are famed for!”

“By whom, Professor?” That was one of the women, probably a “goddess-worshipper.” “Your fame is in writing barely literate speculations concerning how terrifying magic would be if it had ever existed, without even acknowledging that some persists despite your so-called scholarship attempting to deny it.”

Merlin could not sort out the next few exclamations, but decided that was just as well.

“Now, Nimueh,” said a purring male voice, “we know that you have a – quite understandable! -- bias here. However, that’s no reason to insult Agravaine’s scholarship... in public.” Perhaps that was Dr. Bode Alator, who, it was rumoured, actually followed Druid practices in private.

His uncle’s voice intervened in the next explosion. “Let’s keep our discussion to something resembling practical matters,” Gaius said hastily. “Agravaine, your skills as you describe them lie in the area of attracting funding to the department. You have no administrative experience. Ygraine, however, has been administering the survey classes for students not yet admitted to the college or who do not plan to be admitted, and has attracted over 5 million pounds in grants last year alone. What other qualifications do you think would be appropriate to discuss?”

“My scholarship is well-regarded, and hers is barely extant,” came a mumble back, and Merlin had to hand it to Gaius. He had tactfully drawn attention to Agravaine’s over-stated funding abilities (5 million! That was incredible, though he supposed the Queen of all Albion would have access to lots of rich people – or could have donated it herself. If the latter, that would be quite a looming threat: “Make me chair or the money goes away.” He’d never heard that Ygraine was that kind of schemer, though.) Then he’d emphasized Ygraine’s abilities to do Agravaine’s job and her own. Perhaps his uncle was more political than when he sat at their dinner table and asked Merlin what he intended to do with his life.

“Yggy...” There was a whine attached to Agravaine’s voice.

“You’re right, Aggy,” answered Ygraine, and Merlin flinched at what were undoubtedly childhood nicknames. “Although maligning the spiritual traditions of some of the faculty could never lead to good, as you should know. Are we ready to vote?”

Merlin slid to the doorway of the room. He couldn’t see all of them, but since they were all writing on small slips of paper, he could easily conclude they were voting. The man closest to him was Chair Sigan, the best known of the faculty save for Queen Ygraine. This was probably from special advertising: anyone who wore plum, violet, lavender and what not, with rings across the colour spectrum glittering from most of his fingers, and a locket with an even larger amethyst stone around his neck, was going to be recognized from a distance. Miles away, even. Sigan was best known for being disliked, however; not for his articles, which were mostly self-published on tan paper and sold to the survey classes. Apparently he did a good business in class-assigned articles, so somebody besides himself must admire him . . .

The pieces of paper were collected by Gaius, who went around with a hat for each to put their slips in. This naturally segued to another argument: who would tally the slips.

Basically the opinion was divided on one side between Morgause (“over my dead body,” said Agravaine, leading to a look from Morgause which could only be translated as “that will be even more amusing than counting ballots!” and Professor Alator “not precisely neutral,” Professor Cenred King drawled.) Merlin had heard King was drunk by teatime every day, but the point was still fair. Alator was known to be one of Morgause’s allies.

Of the others, it seemed Edwin Muirden was not a reliable counter for practical reasons, and no one really trusted Professor Aredian. A suggestion to have the Fellows do it led to burning glares aimed at Morgana and a dark-haired, blue-eyed young man who sat behind Professor Valiant but who, judging from the glare directed at him from said academic, was not allied with him.

Finally Ygraine cut the conversation short. She smiled dazzlingly at Merlin, who was in the corner pretending to polish the already-shining espresso machine. “What is your name, young man?”

“Merlin Emrys, your Majesty.” What was one supposed to call a Queen? 

It apparently didn’t matter. “Call me Professor Pendragon, Merlin. I presume since you’re here alone, you’re trusted to count the money and such?”

Merlin could see where this was going. “Umm, yes, Professor.”

“Very well.” She turned back to the group. “I propose that we request Mr. Emrys to tally the votes on a promise of confidentiality, and then pay him a small sum. Students are so often short on funds.” She smiled at him, and he managed not to feel insulted; no doubt his pants were shabby, though his uniform of blue Sisters scarf over darker button down shirt was of course as good as anyone’s.

This was grudgingly accepted, and Merlin took the hat and sat at the counter, tallying the notes and keeping track on a piece of paper, while the others returned to a mind-numbingly dull conversation on whether they should give the Chair a department office or let them keep their own somewhere in the College. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on this, he noted; especially Professor Sigan, who waved his violet cuffs in the air in a manner which showed off the (gaudy) amethyst cuff links they were fastened with.

The votes seemed straightforward enough to Merlin: a clear majority thought the Queen should be in charge. Apparently even those not of the Goddess faction could have an opinion that she was easier to work with. 

Merlin, who’d been sorting the bits of paper, noticed he’d somehow put a “Professor Agravaine” ballot on top of the “Dr. Pendragon” pile. As he adjusted, he noted the one underneath also said that. He shuffled through the pile and found that all but four said “Agravaine.” These gave the vast majority to him after all, though Merlin couldn’t imagine how he’d made such a major sorting mistake the first time through.

He put the entire bunch together, shuffled, and started sorting again. No, the majority definitely went to Agravaine. But then, he accidentally touched one of the names and got a dull shock. He blinked. Under his fingers was clearly written, “Dr. Pendragon.” The Agravaine notation just disappeared, like the fake it was.

Merlin tried to keep his face as straight as possible as he went through each of the names again, this time touching each one. He found that the majority of the votes were indeed Dr. Pendragons, once the surface charm was cleared. Someone was playing dirty – someone with perhaps not much magic, but the useful kind. For con artists.

He finished his tally, correcting it, and then went through one more time to make certain. A few of the names wobbled before him, trying to change to Agravaines, so Merlin firmly told all the pieces of paper to show the true vote and be unchangeable. With that, the vote was obvious.

He stood up, put the names back in his uncle’s hat (Greek fisherman style, left over from the ‘60s) and brought it over to him.

“And you have a tally?” Dr. Pendragon asked him, smiling kindly. 

“Yes, Dr. Pendragon. You have the majority.”

“That’s impossible!” Professor Aredian exclaimed. “Let me see the slips.”

Merlin looked at Dr. Pendragon for guidance. She nodded, and he handed the slips to the unpleasant-looking faculty member.

Who glanced through them, concentrating on each in a perhaps-surprisingly careful way. Perhaps he’s just dyslexic, Merlin thought in an attempt to be charitable. But he had a suspicion that it was fortunate he’d charmed the slips to resist magic intervention.

Aredian handed the hat back to Uncle Gaius without a word. His face looked furious.

“It appears our next chair will be Ygraine,” Morgause announced, earning more glares. Presumably everyone thought someone else should be the one to make the announcement. Faculty tended to care a lot about their own protocol and nothing for anyone else's. Agravaine looked disappointed, but not furious; perhaps because he was fond of his sister, perhaps because he had nothing to do with the magical cheating. Or both.

The faculty drained their lukewarm coffees and stood up. “We will meet at our usual staff time next Monday to discuss how we will handle the academic duties the Chair had,” Dr. Pendragon announced. “In the meantime, thank you for a long and enlightening meeting. Well done, everyone.”

Hardly anyone was cheerful enough – or awake enough – to thank her, but her cheeriness didn’t alter. Nimueh and Morgause hugged her and said, “Well done.” As Ygraine left, she slipped a bill from her purse to Morgana, and said something quietly.

Morgana slid next to Merlin.

“You were a long time over those slips,” she said.

Merlin shrugged. “Some of them were hard to read,” he answered truthfully.

“I’ll bet.” She looked at him assessingly. “But you made sure you got them accurately in the end.”

He shrugged again, not knowing what else to say. Talking about the struggle with their magic would be tattling on the faculty. He felt uncomfortable doing that.

She suddenly leaned forward and kissed his cheek, which he’d never seen Morgana do to anyone before. “Well done, Merlin Emrys,” she said. “I’m voting for the way you clean the ice machine.” She handed the bill Dr. Pendragon had given her over to him. Merlin was silent from shock. It was a 50 L bill.

“It’s okay, you really, really earned it,” Morgana told him. “Even if Dr. Pendragon doesn’t know how much.” Then she ran to catch up with Morgause.

Merlin watched the faculty go and started cleaning up the table. It was almost time to open again.


	3. Merlin Meets the Day Manager

Did I hurt your feelings? Haven’t heard from you in three days.

 

A complete ignoramus couldn’t possibly hurt my feelings.

 

That may be true, but I’ve already told you I’m specializing in Physics, so I’m obviously not a complete one.

 

Could you just PLEASE sterilize the ice cream maker at least? It really is very dangerous. Dairy bacteria is the worst kind. And I can’t do it in the morning properly.

 

All right, since you ask so nicely – I sterilize it every night. I know it’s important.

 

You said you don’t use bleach.

 

We don’t.

 

Nothing else guarantees sterility, except soap and water then boiling the parts for 20 minutes.

 

I use magic.

 

Magic? WHAT?

 

Magic. It’s pretty simple.

 

Wait, what? Magic is too rare to waste it on a coffee bar. Even if you weren’t lying.

 

Not rare for me. And easier than boiling, and a damn sight safer than bleach.

 

Look. I’m making this an order. Start sterilizing the ice cream machine. As per instructions. –DM

 

And I’m making this a repetition. I’m sterilizing it properly – with magic.

 

The path to his workplace wasn’t long, but Merlin tended to dawdle. Along the way was Excalibur Park, named for a strange monument which had been excavated from a marshy sheep pasture a hundred years ago and placed in Oxbridge, once they’d invented heavy equipment which could haul a flattish boulder and the representation of a medieval sword which had apparently been carved from the boulder.

Merlin stood in front of the monument. The sword hilt – of human proportion, with every detail in the stone perfect – had been left faced toward the path, and many before him had themselves put their hand on the hilt, trying to pull it out, or at least loosen it enough they could determine if it were a separate piece. Archaeologists had experimented for years, but it didn’t budge. As recently as the ‘30s, they’d hesitantly allowed engineers to fiddle, but the engineers had concluded it was made this way, solid and perpetual. Judging from the records of those times, the archaeologists had even invited representatives from the College of Magical Theory. One had brought a book, and shouted strange words at it, or so Merlin had been told – it was long before his time. Two women had touched the hilt reverently, and then knelt right there on the grass and stared at it for an hour, lips occasionally moving.

Nothing had changed, no matter who tried to analyse it. The grey stone – granite, someone speculated, but others said it was an unfamiliar igneous rock and could even be meteorite, the iron count was so heavy – remained smooth and beautiful. There were words chipped into the stone, and these too had been a matter for much debate in the 1930s, since they were still readable, possibly as clear as the day they had been made.

Merlin pushed aside the thick ivy which almost covered the sword, and traced the words. They were old Welsh, but near enough the language he’d been raised with to understand. Whoever draws this sword from this stone is rightwise born king of all Albion, and of Gramarye. The royals, arrogant as always, had adopted the old terms for Britain, real and fantastic, and gave it to the Prince of what till then had been merely Wales. The College of Magical Theory had supposedly been debating the matter to this day, since some believed the word “Gramarye” stood for the magical lands no longer to be seen, and others thought the reference was to the magic of Albion, back when it existed.

Merlin loved the story of the sword, and even more the fantastic myth which had developed around it, that there had been a King destined to unite all Albion when it was wavering from the withdrawal of the Romans and the incursions of the Saxons. That was definitely myth – archaeologists had concluded there were no Saxon incursions, unless you counted some handful of peoples fleeing various overseas disasters and settling by the coasts, to be welcomed by present occupants for the trade in food, livestock, and iron weapons unlike their own bronze ones, and of course more marriage options.

Whatever the myth, the reality was no King had ever appeared to unite the land, either by sword or blood. And finally Excalibur (as they’d named it, after the sword of an obscure warlord called Artos who had managed to carve a bit of a kingdom out for himself and then died in the usual internecine struggles back then) had been mounted in this park for public view, miraculously survived the blitz, and remained a minor tourist attraction for Merlin to look at every day on his way to work.

The rest of the way was town street, mostly filled these days with pubs and international brands. At 3 p.m. precisely, Merlin unlocked the door to Sisters and looked about him. He had an hour to opening. And why the co-op insisted on closing from 2-4 p.m., he couldn’t imagine. That was a prime caffeine time; after lunch, before dinner. Yes, 4 p.m. was tea time, but this really was a coffee establishment, with tea just the sideline which made it possible to bring in the older-fashioned elements. Or, of course, not. One out of 50 ordered tea.

Flip on espresso machine. Check the shiny counters, and prepare the mise – lemon twists, lime twists, chocolate syrup, flasks of full milk and skim milks, three nicely-cleaned foamers for when it got busy and he needed back up from someone. Unlock the pastry self-serve, and check to make sure everything was thawed – the day staff had a bad tendency to grab stuff out of the freezer at the end of shift, rather than earlier in the day.

Squirt bottles for design. He was bored by now of drawing ferns, flowers, and hearts. Why didn’t anyone except the drunk ones ever want a penis, say, or maybe a math equation? He thought about that; it would take a bit of magic considering the size of the squirt opening. Maybe...

The unlocked front opened despite the “closed” sign still on it. It whooshed closed, as the presumably impatient customer stomped in.

Merlin glanced up from his artistic musings. The stomper was tallish, though not quite his own height, blond, and furious. He was dressed in the basics of Sisters’ uniform: blue and white striped collared shirt, coordinating American jeans. But instead of the ubiquitous blue scarf, he wore a coordinating blue tie. It didn’t work at all, was Merlin’s opinion. He returned to prep.

“We’re closed,” he said pleasantly, sympathetic with the urge for caffeine. “If you’re desperate, I can do you a cup of cafe Americano, but I’ll need to reheat it...” The lazy day staff never bothered dumping the last of the cheap flask, since then they would have to clean it.

“Why the fuck would I want coffee?” the stranger said, and his voice was full of the mellifluous Oxford consonants, surrounded by a rasp of irritation. It was mildly sexy that way; Merlin actually looked up at him. “I don’t want coffee; I don’t even like coffee. I want to talk to you about cleanliness. You can’t go around just offering to clean by magic, you know.”

Merlin had spotted the id card hanging from his hip: DM, it said, which pretty much placed him: the obnoxious, self righteous day manager who was always criticizing his methods, while happily leaving messes like old cold coffee and frozen crumbcake for him to fix.

“Why not?” The machine was hissing happily; Merlin patted it and started a serving of espresso. Not only was it a good test that all was well, but espresso with a lemon peel started the working day off right.

“Why not what?”

“Why don’t you like coffee? And why can’t I offer to clean by magic?”

“It’s none of your business why I don’t like coffee, and you can’t offer to clean by magic because we have standards. Because there are scientists who test the e. coli and other bacteria and determine if the public is safe. And we are responsible to the scientists, and the public, and...”

“Oh my god,” Merlin said, the sound of the espresso machine nearly drowning him out. “Of all the self righteous ignoramuses... There is no rule that I can’t sterilize by magic; it’s safer and cleaner and greener. Morgana authorized it, back when I was just starting.”

(He prudently didn’t mention that she had laughed and laughed, and then said patronizingly, “Yes, Merlin, whatever gets us a pass with the inspectors is acceptable. First time it doesn’t, you’re gone.”)

“What’s your name?” The DM’s eyes were narrowed at him. Merlin didn’t have time for this.

“Look it up in your payroll, your Highness. I have work to do.”

As he was turning back to his now-fresh espresso, he froze, and began to catalogue the obnoxious stranger’s attributes. Patrician nose, straight blond hair, scathing expression, over-neat clothing... he’d seen them in a hundred photos, usually with a hand up trying to block the lens. “Your Highness” wasn’t just a snarky remark. It was the correct title for the heir to the throne. Who surely could not now or ever be the day manager for the mostly-lesbian Sisters Coffee.

But, in for a sheep, in for a goat, as his grandmother used to say. Merlin took his time sipping the espresso, admiring the notes of citrus and chocolate and, yes, blackened coffee. You learned to like espresso out of self defence, working here.

The Prince’s body double was leaning close into Merlin’s personal space. “I. Am. The. Day. Manager. You call me sir. Try it now.”

“Not if it got me the blue ribbon at the Ealdor Fair, mate. Tell me your name first, and I might be polite myself.”

The blond jerked back his chin – oh my, he did look like the Prince. Merlin’s eyes slid downward. Those powerful hips and thighs, the sturdy swell of the zipper, the cloth around the jeans’ crotch worn from the work it was doing preserving modesty... well, a prince’s double should look better than a prince, right?

“My eyes are up here, mate,” his antagonist said. Merlin hastily shifted the level of his gaze.

“And my name,” the other continued, biting on each crisp consonant as if he’d gone to every public school in the nation, “is Arthur. Day Manager Arthur. Known by peons and suchlike as ‘sir.’ You can call me Arthur, sir, and yessir. Which I’m waiting to hear right now.”

Merlin, stalling, took another sip of his espresso. It was as good as espresso can get, which put heart in him. The day staff did not make coffee as well as he did, and everyone said so.

“Well, Sir Arthur,” he said finally, “you came here cheesed off to complain at me, so let’s just deal with that, shall we? I leave the place clean when I close out. It’s a mess when I open. I can only conclude that your crew is responsible for the mess. I’m perfectly competent to sterilize by magic, so I do. It’s faster, and it’s more fun. What’s not fun is being told off by some self-righteous prat who thinks he knows more than I do about working here.”

He watched Arthur take an enormous breath, and count to 10 using his lips. Arthur as a name made it a bit more possible... but no. What would the prince of Albion and Gramarye be doing as a day manager in an Oxbridge coffee shop? Even if his storm of arrogance did fit someone born with a silver spoon up his ass....

As Arthur opened his mouth for invective, if not possibly a curse, it occurred to Merlin that his mum would not appreciate his sassing Prince Arthur, if indeed that was who it was; or for that matter, Prince Arthur’s body double, or his horse or dog. His mum was a royalist all the way through.

“My name’s Merlin,” he said hastily. “Merlin Emrys. I’m the night manager.”

Arthur’s red, shiny face became a little more attractive and neutral. “Okay, Merlin. Obviously we’ve started on the wrong foot. I didn’t, for example, ask if you were joking, and I certainly should have. So let’s start again. Hello, my name is Arthur Pendragon. Delighted to meet you.” He held out his hand.

Merlin thought, So okay, this is how it feels to have your nose rubbed in it, and accepted the hand, gripped it politely, and dropped it hastily. There really wasn’t a way to fool himself about a name like “Arthur Pendragon.” Heir to the throne, much-photographed and You Tube Most Eligible Briton, and complete all-around prat, apparently, Prince Arthur.

Merlin wiped his hand on the towel hanging from his apron, though it occurred to him he probably should have done that before shaking hands.

“And you’re the one leaving all those stickies telling me what to change about my habits? And decor? And handwriting?”

Arthur’s face flushed a little again. “Well, yes. People usually have to make a connection with their supervisors, so I thought...” he trailed off, presumably because he’d realized how stupid ordering someone he’d never met around might be.

Merlin had his full measure of charm, as both his uncle Gaius and his mum observed, mostly disapprovingly. He found himself exerting it simply to make this self-righteous git a little more at ease.

“Why did you think I was joking about cleaning by magic?”

Arthur scratched his head. “Because nobody does, after all. Most people don’t have enough magic to bend a teaspoon. It would be such a waste of the energy we have left. Besides, who ever heard of sterilization by magic?”

“I have,” Merlin said. “I do it every day. My mum made me learn so I could do the dishes when I was six. It’s just a release of heat; not much work.”

Arthur stared at him, bemused. “So you really do.”

“Why do you think it’s odd?”

“Well, my mother is in the College of Magical Theory, and I’ve taken the non-major courses from there. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the law of diminishing paraphysical returns?”

Merlin shook his head. “But let me guess, it means that it takes more energy to use magic than to use some other means.”

Arthur cheered up. “Exactly.”

“Well, mine doesn’t.”

Arthur began pacing around the room, waving his hands. Merlin watched, fascinated from this transformation – from Arrogant Royal Supervisor to Royal Nerd, in five seconds. “Well, of course, you think it doesn’t. I mean, studies show almost everyone thinks they have more magic than they really have. Even those with none think they can do magical things if motivated enough. So it’s much more probable that you think you’re cleaning when you’re just disappearing surface smudges. Which is dangerous, Merlin. It could make people sick.”

He seemed ready to expound some more, probably from the long and far-too-old-fashioned Co-Op handout on germs and health and Our Duty to Our Community, so Merlin waved back. “Yes, of course it is. That’s not what I do. Could you just calm down and admit that I might know what I’m talking about?”

Arthur deflated. “I’m not really good at assuming things like that,” he confessed. “Especially to subordinates who look about sixteen, aren’t wearing a hairnet, and claim they can magically sterilize dangerous items like ice cream machines.”

Merlin began checking in the bakery case and found a reasonably-defrosted cookie. He rang it up, and handed it to Arthur.

“Sit,” he said. “And I’ll show you what I do. But wait till the kettle boils. You need a cuppa.”

After that, the stickies got even more numerous, but they carried a sort of grudging respect. Or so Merlin wished to believe.

 

Merlin – your uniform scarf is supposed to wrap your head when you need a haircut. It is not supposed to be turned into a bandoleer for an impromptu presentation of The Student Prince. May I add, you are insufficiently skilled in music to sing the part of the university, let alone the lead. Leave that to the pros.

 

PS – “Drink, drink, drink” as a song celebrating getting drunk is not appropriate in a coffee purveyor’s.

 

Everyone else praised my performance. We sold out by 6 p.m. Had to run up the lane to a bakery to restock. We’re talking about having regular talent shows to compete with all the places not run by old fashioned fuddy-duddies. M.

 

What’s a fuddy-duddy, and who’s old-fashioned? They were probably buying food to make you stop. That’s not a good long-term business plan. A.

 

Merlin, I refuse to believe that you charmed the espresso machine to sound like wind chimes playing “It’s good to be king” when I’m preparing the coffee. If you must waste your energy and my ears, I would prefer something by Respighi. A

 

Merlin, not just the first eight notes over and over. I mean it. A.


	4. The Day Manager Isn't All That Awful

The second time Merlin met Arthur in person, Merlin was in Sisters’ kitchen, poking disapprovingly at the stacks of cleaned dishes left by the day shift, waiting to be put where they belonged by ... well, Merlin.

Arthur was furious. He slammed out of a door which was always kept locked in the back, which Merlin had assumed was an emergency exit. He was waving a newspaper in his hand.

“LOOK at this crap!” he said. “Just look at it! It’s as fake as it comes, and everyone’s commenting as if it were true, or at least as if they know something about my life and my parents’ lives!”

Merlin heard some clattering on steps behind the door, and an attractive man with longish hair and a hipster beard came trotting into the back room and moved subtly between Arthur and Merlin, before he turned to the Prince and said, “If you are eating lunch and reading a newspaper, your Highness, it’s unexpected to see you snatch the paper and stalk down stairs. Two seconds’ warning would be plenty. Just two seconds. Five, if you weren’t such a Princess.”

Merlin blinked. He wondered if this man was the Prince’s boyfriend. If, of course, the Prince were interested in men... Arthur confirmed the possibility by saying, without defensiveness, “Shut up, Gwaine. It’s not your parents,” and then denied it by saying, “This is Merlin. He’s completely harmless. No one else is allowed in here, so give it a quick sweep if you have to and then kindly go back upstairs. I’ll leave the door open so you can hear if Merlin screams.”

At that, the mysterious Gwaine cocked an eyebrow, leered at Merlin, and did a quick walk through of Sisters which made it obvious he was familiar with every square foot. He waved at Merlin and trotted (noisily) back upstairs.

“Who’s that?” Merlin asked, putting down the tray he’d just emptied into the baking case.

“Oh, one of my bodyguards. Gwaine,” Arthur said absently, far more interested in re-reading some piece of the paper. “But look at this shit, Merlin.”

Merlin was mildly flattered that Arthur had brought it to complain to him, but everything was not clear yet. “Why were you upstairs?”

“I live here. Perks of the Day Manager. That’s how I can hear all those performing things you get up to here – with that terrible music. There’s a separate exit I usually use, because Alice and Finna insisted I not involve myself too much in night management. Or you would have met me long before, with your constant error.”

“You need to go to a seminary and learn to be tolerant of error,” Merlin said. His best friend since he was little was now a Jesuit priest, so he knew a lot of the discourse, though not the customs. “Very well, I’ll make a pot of coffee, and you can sit in the other room. For a miracle, it was all done when I got here.”

“We always leave it clean, Merlin, you’re exaggerating. I’ll make the coffee. You read the article.”

Merlin perched in his favourite corner – the one with two windows and lots of light, and a view of a tree on the sidestreet – and took the newspaper.

 

Royals to Dispossess Son?

“Prince Arthur can’t do the job,” says knowledgeable source

Will an obscure cousin be the next Queen?

 

Sources close to the royal family disclosed yesterday that King Uther and Queen Ygraine are so fed up with their royal son’s incompetence that they have decided to disinherit him and give the throne to a third cousin, Lady Morgana Gorlois.

“They’re really fed up,” the source, who works in the Palace, told us in strictest confidence. “Right now, the Prince is working at an obscure coffee shop in Oxbridge, in between getting into rows with anyone he encounters. Even his bodyguards can’t keep up with him. His marks were terrible in school, he barely finished at college, and Queen Ygraine told him yesterday directly – in the Palace dining room, at dinner with guests – that he was a grave disappointment to both of them, and his ancestors too! He threw a roll at her and left the dinner without excusing himself.”

“The difficulty is,” the Queen sobbed to her elegant private party, “Uther is so strong, he can stand up to the Prime Minister and negotiate with anyone. Arthur is incapable of diplomacy, and he’s always been a rather fragile little boy.”

 

Merlin paused in his reading. He could hear Arthur making coffee, rather more loudly than it usually got made, including emphatic opening and closing of drawers with metal spoons in them. He tried not to laugh, although mostly he felt furious. This story was a lie, as fake as they came – and yet, could anyone tell? He continued, though he rather wanted to go and fling his arms around Arthur, relative stranger though he was.

 

King Uther, when approached, refused to comment, other than to say, “It’s none of your business,” in his famous blunt style.

If the King and Queen carry out their plan, they will skip over several heirs who are closer to the throne in favour of a young, beautiful Fellow at Oxbridge, the Lady Morgana. She is a distant cousin who has always excelled, and friends say, “Nobody is better than Morgana at anything, really. She’s tough when she has to be, persuasive about everything, and photographs extremely well.”

Perhaps the gentler solution would be to persuade Prince Arthur (also rumoured to not have much interest in women) to woo and wed this lovely Lady and give her a free hand when he succeeds to the throne. 

 

Merlin blinked as a cup of tea sloshed over some of the paper as it was placed in front of the chair next to him. A coffee, rather more carefully, was laid down close to his hand.

“What do you think?”

“I think it’s disgusting. And unkind. And untrue.”

“Untrue it certainly is. My father would have done more than say to any journalist, “It’s none of your business,” if they asked him about disinheriting me. He would have added a lot of unprintable words, and probably ordered his guards to arrest him. It would have been a public incident.”

“Errrm,” Merlin said, “There’s also –“

“And my royal Mum never cried – let alone sobbed – among guests in her life. She would consider it completely declasse. Not to mention that she would never have a private party during term time – she’s got work to do, and the formal functions are bad enough.”

“Yes, and there’s also –“ 

“Not to mention the bit about Morgana, who so far as I know has never met my father or been to the castle, though that might actually be a credible piece, since he doesn’t approve of her sort...”

“Lesbians?”

“Poor dressers. Not to mention she hasn’t been trained in statecraft. And come to think of it, that bit about me being fragile –“

“Arthur.”

“I’m as tough as they come physically. Both my parents know that. I took years of martial arts – contact, not just the formal sort – and I taught a self defence class last year when there were concerns about that serial killer loose in the neighbourhood. The one that guy with the weird first name finally caught. Struggle, was it? Maybe Enterprise...”

“Really?” Merlin asked, suddenly distracted. “You taught self defence to the Sisters staff?”

“All the women, and a couple of men participated too. Come to think of it, Morgana was there. She was good, I wouldn’t say otherwise, but her centre of gravity –“

Merlin decided it was time to interrupt Arthur’s clearly unfocused angry train of thought. 

“There’s also,” he said, “the law of Succession. The King – or Queen – can’t just decide who inherits the Throne. Parliament does that, and it’s been that way since --”

Arthur dismissed this minor fact with a wave. It looked very much like one he’d learned from his father. “Oh, well. That part obviously couldn’t be true. But the insult...”

“Have a biscuit,” Merlin suggested, and brought him a Snickerdoodle, which he’d observed always ran out from morning to afternoon. His suspicions proved right; Arthur looked pleased and perhaps just a little distracted from his tirade.

“Did you pay?”

“I put it on my tab.” That’s what Morgana said to say if anyone yelled at him for eating something. Alice, bless her, had told him that she made the biscuits, not to mention the scones, vegetable pie, and cakes, and if her workers wanted something to eat, they could eat them all if they chose; they hadn’t started Sisters merely for the money.

When Arthur’s mouth was full, Merlin saw his opportunity to finish a sentence. “These horrible lies people write about you and your parents and apparently anyone else they want to involve – does this happen often?”

“All the time. Every day. But they don’t usually suggest that my parents don’t want me to inherit the kingdom anymore. Usually they’re just generic lies about me as the Bad Boy, and my father and mother as worried.”

“You’re a bad boy?” Merlin asked innocently, handing him another biscuit.

“Well, remember it’s all made-up.” Arthur took a nibble and a sip of tea and started looking more cheerful. “I go to Clubs and have Inappropriate Relationships with Daughters of the Nobility. Only this last year it’s more I’ve broken my parents’ hearts by being secretly Gay and Doing a Job Beneath Me by Working in a coffee shop that’s owned by Lesbians, and not Finishing my Training in Public Policy with Honours.”

“I think the coffee shop and lesbian part is true.”

“Oh well.” Arthur blushed a little, and took another sip of coffee, then looked out of the corner of his eye at Merlin while he said, “The gay part is true, too, only it’s not that secret. My parents know, and my bodyguards, and the owners. If I date someone, I won’t keep it secret or anything.”

“Oh,” Merlin replied, suddenly breathless. He thought he might be blushing too. Arthur continued to watch him out of the corner of his eye, and then began to smile a little – somewhere between a smile and a smirk, anyway.

Arthur looked straight at him. Merlin stared into his coffee.

Arthur deliberately put his little finger into Merlin’s cup. “Is it interesting in there? Let’s see what’s so –“ he licked his fingers and made a face. “Disgusting. How can you like that crap?”

“Well, I make better coffee,” Merlin said, indignant enough to look up and glare. “Sometime you can taste mine and maybe you’ll like coffee, or at least latte.”

“I’d like that,” Arthur said. Merlin thought he might have been hallucinating that Arthur had been flirting with him, but he really thought not. Now they were back to the more comfortable interaction, though. 

“So you taught a self defence class for the staff?”

“Both teams invited. Wait a sec, I’ll show you.” Arthur jumped up and ran up the stairs. Merlin began to wonder if they ever used this entrance normally, because he would certainly have heard the packs of ponies running up and down. Must be very old stairs.

Arthur reappeared with a disc in his hand. “Ooh,” Merlin commented. “Technology!” 

“Shut up, Merlin. I like to keep my computer empty because of the paps.”

Merlin said nothing as Arthur went over to the old big screen telly (mostly only run when there was important news, like a terrorist attack or the boat race) and started it, putting the disk into the attached DVD player. 

“Bet you made the DVD so you could watch it on the big screen.”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

The scene opened to Sisters with all the tables stacked against the wall. The staff were gathered about in chairs, perched at various angles and looking toward the television, which Arthur stood in front.

“Nice cinema, Arthur. Post-modernist play within play commentary.”

“I won’t tell you to shut up again, Merlin.”

“Glad to hear it.” 

Arthur was brushing crumbs off his shirt; clearly the staff had started with tea and biscuits. “I take it you bribed them.”

“Good to start with a little sugar and protein.”

“And the protein was?”

“Milk in the tea. Shut up.”

Merlin decided to concentrate on the action, which certainly was worth watching. Arthur was wearing a tight t-shirt which made his muscular frame stand out; one no doubt someone had given him, because it had a saying on it:

IF I AGREED

WITH YOU WE’D

BOTH BE WRONG

 

DVD Arthur didn’t seem to be terribly concerned with his clothing, however, although his trousers were slightly looser than his usual ones, of a lightweight cotton. He was speaking, waving his hands.

“... and I’m glad you all made it, and want to know how to protect yourselves,” he was saying as the sound cut in. “I know several of you have mentioned how concerning it is, going out at night even with a friend, not knowing what might happen.

“So let me just tell you what you most need to know, and you might even want to write this down; memorize the three As. First, go out aware. Don’t get involved in the conversation or the moonlight or anything, as much as you are involved in checking for possible danger – bushes in shadow, crossing alleys, anywhere someone might take advantage of invisibility to go after you.

“Second, don’t go out afraid. Noticing things doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen, it just means you’re ready for it.” He imitated someone constantly aware, his head swinging over to one place, then another.

“And third, go out with attitude. Anyone whom you see looking at you like a target, don’t let them. First, walk cocky, like guys are supposed to.” He imitated a slight swagger down the street, very much in control of every muscle; Merlin admitted to himself that Arthur’s conceit really was attractive, at least on camera.

“And if he does confront you, consider him a target. Look at him not as an attacker, but as a series of vulnerable points. While he’s focused on you as easy prey, size him up and go after him where you can reach, which you know is breakable.”

Arthur’s smile turned feral. ”Gwaine, will you come be my demo dummy?”

The man who’d run down after Arthur today strolled over to him. He stood there, looking resigned.

“Go for my throat. Slowly.”

Gwaine, in something very like slow motion, stepped forward, his arms outstretched to grab Arthur’s throat. Something nameless churned inside Merlin. Gwaine probably wouldn’t hurt anyone, but an automatic protectiveness he’d never felt before kicked in.

Arthur was demonstrating he didn’t need Merlin’s help. He grabbed one of Gwaine’s wrists and pulled it forward, throwing him off balance. Then he dropped the wrist and pointed at Gwaine’s knee and Arthur’s strong boots. “If it’s steel toed, it’s ideal. Just kick in a direction the knee doesn’t bend.”

In short progression, he demonstrated what one might do in the groin area (kick if you’re good at it, but better to grab the balls and twist – this caused a shriek from one of the male participants) to the elbow (much like a knee; punch upward at the joint) the nose (use the side of your hand to push the nose up toward the forehead, which will be painful and might actually kill him) and the top of the foot (high heels have their place here).

“See,” real-life Arthur grumbled beside him. “Self defence. My body is perfectly well-developed.”

“Yeah,” Merlin said. “I can see your pecs through the shirt, and your trousers seem to display your – erm endowments – to advantage.”

Arthur blushed, and subsided, to Merlin’s glee.

He got up and turned off the DVD as his listeners were dividing into groups to attack each other. “Well, you get the idea.”

Merlin glanced at the time. Open in five. He got up and petted Arthur’s head, waiting for a return attack. He wasn’t disappointed, Arthur grabbed his shoulder and hauled him closer, using his other hand to thoroughly muss Merlin’s hair. “Are you ready to open, Merlin? I don’t think so.”

“Not with hair gel all over my hands.” This was unfair; Arthur’s hair was smooth and soft. But Merlin made a show of washing his hands anyway. “Are you free Sunday?”

“Yes,” Arthur said, a bit cautiously.

“I was wondering if you’d like to come explore the countryside with me. Haven’t been very far myself.”

Arthur agreed, and excused himself to return to his rooms. Merlin waited till he was gone to do a little victory dance. It was a date! A date! Arthur might not know it, but that was what it was. 

He spent his occasional free time trying to decide what clothes would most certainly attract Arthur without betraying his own interest.

 

I can’t take you anywhere.

 

Don’t you jump up and down when you’re excited?

 

Not usually.

 

I’ll have to excite you sometime and see.

 

Not in a museum, please.

 

We’ll do it somewhere private, like your rooms.

 

With my body guards living there too?

 

I’ll see what I can do.

 

I think you're flirting with me.


	5. If It Is A Date, Someone Gets Cockblocked

 

Have you had magic your whole life?

 

Yep. At three I changed the wall paint to my favourite colour.

 

And what’s that?

 

You’re just asking so you can pick on me.

 

 

What’s your favourite colour, Merlin?

 

 

What is it, Merlin?

 

Don’t laugh.

 

I won’t.

 

It’s the colour of your hair.

 

Did I offend you, Arthur?

 

No, just surprised me. Really?

 

Yes. It wasn’t when I was three of course. But it is now.

 

What was it when you were three?

 

Pink.

 

Omg

 

Yes, I changed the entire inside of our house to pink. Every wall a different shade.

 

Clearly, you should have been a girl.

 

Watch the sexist observations, Arthur.

Except for Sundays, any overlapping time Arthur and Merlin could meet was mostly chance. Arthur seemed to always come down from his rooms now when he heard the front door open, usually holding a half-eaten sandwich he’d finish while criticizing Merlin’s cleaning style, taste, and speed.

“Give me a bite,” Merlin finally said. Knowing that touching the royal family was forbidden, he nonetheless grabbed Arthur’s wrist, and raised the sandwich to his own mouth. “Eww, Marmite and onion?”

“It was handy. I don’t cook for myself much.”

“Yeah, me neither. I usually don’t eat breakfast till I’m done for the evening.”

“And that,” Arthur said, rescuing his sandwich, “is why you’re so pale and skinny.”

After that, Arthur tended to arrive with two rather nicer sandwiches, probably made in the coffee house at the end of his shift. Merlin didn’t object. He did object, and strenuously, to Arthur’s ongoing stream of criticism. That didn’t seem to deter Arthur at all, but Merlin noticed that the prince did start helping with set up, though his help mostly consisted of setting out candles and flowers in preparation for the after-dark crowd, and rearranging the offerings in the bakery case so that the older ones would be served first.

One day, he brought a usual sandwich – egg and watercress – and watched thoughtfully as Merlin wolfed it down. “I can get off early on Saturdays,” he said. “We have a trainee who’s about ready to fly without supervision, and the other workers say that’s most likely to work if I stay away. I don’t know why everyone at Sisters is always telling me to stay away.”

“You’re frail, remember?” Merlin said cheekily. “If anyone got upset at you, they’d probably break you.”

Arthur humphed. “Well, my puny self is offering to take your skinny self to lunch somewhere nice Saturday, if you can arrange a replacement for yourself for the first couple hours.”

Since Merlin always ensured that the night staff all understood how to open and close Sisters (not a complex job at the worst of times, without Arthur’s interference) he agreed.

He met Arthur on Saturday precisely on time (12:30) and was surprised to see parked near the kerb a sporty silver convertible; it beeped when he came out, and the horn blower was Arthur, of course.

“Nice young men get out of the car and help their guests in,” he said, which was what Hunith said when she watched the teenagers of the neighbourhood dating. 

Arthur snorted. “You’re lucky it’s not a limousine, and I didn’t send the chauffeur in to fetch you.”

“Limousines are tacky. Didn’t you get the memo?”

“Hence, you’re lucky it isn’t.”

“What kind of normal person says ‘hence’?”

Merlin greeted Lance, looking uncomfortable folded into the backseat (“He’s too pro-green to put up with just driving a separate car and following us) and nestled into the soft leather seat. Arthur had thought to heat it, which in the chill November was welcome. Arthur smiled when Merlin said so, a smile Merlin had never seen him displaying on telly, with a mixture of fondness and relaxation which seemed reserved just for Merlin. 

“Where are we going?”

“Tourist place, actually. Nelson and Wellington, though my mum calls it ‘Wellies.’”

“I’ve heard of it. Ridiculous prices, food fancy, fake atmosphere of Victorian days, tiny amounts.”

“I’ll order you two entrees, then.”

Merlin felt a smile on his face which probably looked quite silly. Arthur was ridiculously nurturing under his snark. Since Uther was not, as anyone who glanced at the papers could see, Arthur must take after his mum.

“Are you buying?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Merlin. I know you’re a poverty-stricken scholarship boy.”

Merlin leaned back against the warm seat and spread his legs just enough that Arthur’s hand occasionally brushed against his thigh as he shifted. 

 

Nelson and Wellington really was the opposite of Sisters in every way. There were windows, every one etched and with a grid painted to look like leading attached to the inside of each, imitating a mediaeval tavern. Portraits of heroes from the Napoleonic wars, including the two it was named after, took up most wall space. Queen Victoria as a young woman was also there. The tables were hard, aged oak, dark with fireplace smoke or more likely, latex and turps, returning to the mediaeval theme, but there were padded booths – covered with velvet cushions in the dark red of Victoria’s era – and the chair seats were covered in gold velvet, with gold ribbons tied in bows to keep them attached. The red and gold theme extended to whatever happened to look Victorian, and to the pennants with a gold dragon on a field of red.

“Holy shit,” Merlin said, looking for a place to rest his eyes.

“I knew you’d hate it,” Arthur said triumphantly, as if he’d chosen this place simply to cause Merlin to question his taste. “The food’s okay, though. Come on, we have a private booth.”

This turned out to be a booth at a window which actually had curtains (a fake tapestry pattern) hanging in front, which were tied back and could be pulled for privacy. Arthur ordered a flight of ales and helped Merlin climb into the rather awkwardly placed seats – up two steps, and then switch to right angle to slide in – and pulled the curtains shut after them.

“How can this place charge ridiculous prices?” Merlin asked. “I mean, how?”

“It’s owned by a faculty consortium, so there’s that.”

“One hopes not the history faculty.”

“More likely medical, I’d suppose. Or possibly public policy specialists with a kink; I’ve heard a rumour that there are cameras and recording devices pretty much everywhere.”

“Odd choice for someone pursued by paps, then.”

“The trade off is that they keep the paps out with shotguns, if necessary, and are billed as the most exclusive place to do business at Oxbridge.”

“So that their pix and recordings are exclusive.”

“I thought you could do something about that, if you liked.” 

Merlin considered for a minute, then let his magic out to float around the booth and the surroundings on the other side of it. There were, indeed, suspicious tech devices everywhere. He sipped the water (a slice of orange floating on top; no trite lemons here) just in case there was someone live watching, keeping his eyes down, and maliciously overloaded every circuit in a 12 metre radius, plus any others he wasn’t sure could not reach them.

“Okay,” he said. “Our secret gay affair is now safe.”

“I wish it could be,” Arthur said, saluting him with his glass of pale ale. “Lager?”

“Wine.”

“I didn’t know you’d ever encountered it. Blackberry or loganberry?”

Merlin narrowed his eyes. “If, indeed, you are buying, I want a bottle of properly chilled Chenin Blanc or a decent Beaujolais, assuming you’re willing to try a glass and learn what to say about wine.”

Arthur laughed. “All right, let’s pick what we’re having and decide after that.”

The menu was penned in what looked like Old English Calligraphy. Merlin reflected it was fortunate they were eating lunch, because the sunlight from the window provided enough light to read the menu if he squinted.

“Fish and chips,” he decided, find the least expensive thing.

“They come wrapped in a genuine reproduction of a British newspaper at the time of Trafalgar,” Arthur warned. “Besides, Wellies really do have a chef in the kitchen. You could get something a little more interesting, and save the fish and chips for a good pub. Or maybe dessert.”

“What if I want to read the newspaper?” 

Arthur dipped his hand in his water and flicked it across the table.

“Lucky for you I did eliminate the recorders. You are not behaving like a prince.”

“It’s your fault. That’s what you do to me, Merlin.”

Merlin, encouraged by the tacit permission to spend a bit more, finally chose a meat pie which promised “a brave display of crust animals and divers vegetables.”

“Do you think that’s Victorian?”

“Could be, but our ancestors used to make all sorts of odd dishes in the medieval era, including a lamb stuffed with a suckling pig stuffed with a duck, stuffed with herbs.”

“That’s not so very odd. People stuff birds with sausage.”

“They also would dress a suckling pig up as an armoured horse and then dress a fowl up as a knight and bring it in with the knight riding its horse.”

“Is that when they invented aluminium foil?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and ordered, choosing sage and butternut ravioli with a sauce in which pine nuts and butter seemed to figure largely, and for dessert a model of the Bell Tower in spun sugar and puff pastry filled with rose liqueur-scented creme anglaise, if the menu were to be believed. He also ordered both kinds of wine Merlin had suggested, though Merlin really had been expecting to be ordered to pick a glass of one.

They had just begun an excellent argument concerning the ability of the Blanc to stand up to the meat pie or the Beaujolais to improve the squash and pasta, when there was a knock at one of the oak pillars holding up their curtains.

They stopped, silent. Then Arthur said, “Yes?” in a voice nicely pitched to sound welcoming if his next sentence were pleasant, or hostile if the next sentence called Lance, sitting at the next table – not one with curtains, so presumably he’d already seen their visitor and allowed them this far.

“It’s Morgana,” said a familiar voice. “And Mordred. From the Department? We saw you last week, Merlin, when we were meeting?”

Arthur made a face, then hid it and opened the curtain. “May we help you?”

Mordred was standing there in a black turtleneck tucked into black jeans, a vest from some Eastern country pinstriped lavender on black. He looked awkward, and also in uniform – though Merlin couldn’t imagine a uniform of what.

Morgana, on the other hand, seemed to have dressed up a little. She was wearing a Digger’s hat with a scarf around the band, a black poet’s shirt which came to her knees, and black leggings. Her Docs were as usual.

Merlin smiled at her, although he felt uneasy for some reason.

“It’s really crowded, and we were so looking forward to a decent lunch out of commons, and we overheard the waiters gossiping about Prince Arthur dining here with a friend, and I’ll be glad to buy if we can join you,” she said, in a rush.

Arthur opened his mouth. Merlin could read his mind, and kicked him. Arthur’s fame for being incredibly rude and undiplomatic was going to be illustrated, he could tell.

“We’d be delighted,” Merlin said gamely, and slid over so there would be room for them. “We’ve ordered, but if you don’t mind that –“

Arthur slid over, stopping precisely across the table from Merlin, and nodded. He couldn’t seem to make his smile work, though; a flattening of lips was the nearest he could do.

“Of course you needn’t pay,” he said. “My shout. After all, you taught me everything I know about being a barista.”

Morgana smiled then, and it seemed to be genuine. Mordred, whom Morgana had undoubtedly briefed, looked a little relieved. He perched as near the end of Arthur’s bench as he could manage, while Morgana rearranged herself to be flush with Merlin’s leg. Merlin rewarded Arthur for remembering his manners with a huge grin, just for him, and Arthur’s smile returned almost to normal.

They ordered quickly, a plowman’s lunch (Mordred) and a large salad featuring vegan salmon (probably tofu died pink) and tiny pickled onions (Morgana). Nobility seemed to have turned vegetarian. The conversation was desultory until the waiter poured the wine and disappeared, closing the curtains behind him.

“It’s actually lucky we ran into you,” Morgana said, digging into the centrepiece of her salad enthusiastically. “We’ve been wanting to talk to you forever.”

“You know where we work,” Arthur pointed out. Merlin kicked him again. Arthur pointedly pulled his leg away and glared at him. “I am going to be perfectly civil,” he said, enunciating each syllable. “I am just curious why she didn’t come visit me – or you, depending whom Morgana wishes to interro... speak to, at Sisters, or at least arrange a time to meet.”

“I didn’t want word to get around that we need to talk to Merlin,” Morgana said calmly, as if she were in a spy novel. “Anything which happens at Sisters immediately races to the College, and it would get all cluttered with the paranoia running rampant there already.”

“Is paranoia running rampant?” Merlin asked, interested. “What about?”

Morgana waved her fork dismissively. “Name it, and someone fears it. Our faculty is completely divided, if you couldn’t tell from that meeting. Most men are afraid of those of us who want the Old Religion back. The ones who think magic would be a disaster are afraid that there really might some power beyond parlour tricks which someday will be rediscovered. The ones who find it lovely to write about don’t want to hear that practising magic required disgusting ingredients, threatening language, and belief that carnality is more spiritual than virginity. The Goddess worshippers are beginning to be afraid that they missed the chance to save magic and will never have that time foretold when all the Old Ones return. Even your mother, Highness –“ 

She stopped. Arthur had turned to look directly at her, abandoning his attempt to chase slippery little raviolis all over his bowl. “What about my mother?” he asked, and Merlin knew better than to try to stop him this time, by kicking or something more direct. He itched to warn Morgana to back off.

“Dr. Pendragon is an administrator, and tactful,” Morgana said, apparently not noticing the threat. “But she’s going around pinching a wrinkle in between those perfect eyebrows. When Nimueh and Morgause asked her what the problem was, she just answered that there’s an aura she doesn’t quite like.”

“An aura? Her Highness doesn’t believe in auras.” Merlin noted that Arthur did not, apparently use the term “mum” when others were around. Well, everyone had a stick up their bum sometimes. Arthur simply had one for each outfit.

“Be that as it may,” Morgana said, “she said what she said. I was there.”

“Of course,” Arthur responded. “Wherever Morgause is, there you are also, as the Bible verse goes.”

“Stop insulting me with quotations from the New religion.”

“It’s not insulting to use the official Church of –“

Merlin tuned out. Arthur and Morgana might be distant cousins, but they clearly knew each other well enough to bicker, and not at the light level he and Arthur did. He turned to Mordred and saw him poking cautiously as his Plowman’s. Apparently the Welly served lunch for French plow men, because there were assorted cheeses such as brie, Roquefort, and goat, cornichons, and a medium-sized baguette. 

“Tough luck, mate,” he said sympathetically.

Mordred grinned. “This cheese is all right,” he said, “but I loathe French pickles. All salt, no flavour, and if I made a sandwich of this they’d fall out anyway. Morgana insisted on coming here, but by everything I’ve heard, can’t say it’s better than a pub lunch.”

Merlin ceremoniously sliced a large wedge of his pie (which was indeed decorated with little crust animals) and passed it over with fork and spoon holding it steady. “This is actually quite good, I promise. If you eat meat?”

“Carnivore from day one. A great disappointment to my parents, who are vegans themselves, except for animal sacrifice once a year.”

Mordred applied himself to the pie approvingly. Merlin choked, but decided to save the questions about animal sacrifice for later.

Morgana and Arthur had somehow achieved harmony and were now picking apart each member of the faculty they disliked. Since there was overlap on the highest dislike, Merlin thought he could trust them to be pleasant for awhile.

“So, why did Morgana insist on coming here?” he asked Mordred, when there was a break in the pie consumption.

“She had a dream,” Mordred said absently. “And when Morgana has dreams, we have to do what Morgana says, or she cuts out our belly, pulls out the intestines, and strings us up a tree.”

Merlin blinked. “I can see even cornichons would be preferable to that. Have some more wine.”

He added more to Morgana’s glass too, prudently avoiding his and Arthur’s. She had stopped her discussion with Arthur and was looking over at him, with some trepidation.

“Mordred exaggerates,” she said. “I was just thinking about you, and realized I really don’t know anything about you.”

“I’m just Merlin. Country labourer, Mama’s boy, and since we met, Arthur’s dogsbody.”

“Yes, but that’s always been the case.”

Arthur ruffled up at this. “Merlin’s exaggerating. If anything, I do his work.”

She blinked. “Right.”

“What do you mean, ‘always been the case’?”

“As long as you knew him, you’d do anything for Arthur.”

“Well, we’ve known each other a month or two...” Merlin trailed away, and looked at her. “You think we’ve known each other before?”

“Yes, I do. In another lifetime.”

Mordred sighed noisily and continued with his pie.

“You believe in reincarnation?” Arthur asked incredulously. “Nobody believes in reincarnation any more.”

“Who do you think we were?” Merlin asked, genuinely curious.

“Well, Arthur of course was a prince of Albion, and then the king. And you – you were his servant, even when he promoted you. ‘General dogsbody’ describes it well.”

Merlin for some reason was having a bit of trouble breathing. His lungs simply wouldn’t open sufficiently far. Morgana’s warm presence next to him suddenly became threatening, not comfortable. She looked as though she believed what she was saying. What’s more, she looked as if what she was saying was somehow important. Possibly dangerous.

Arthur was looking at him sharply. “I think we should change the conversation,” he said. “Merlin’s not amused.”

Morgana looked at Merlin too, and put her hand on his shoulder. Merlin felt a ridiculous urge to throw it off and run away as fast as he could. “I’m sorry, Merlin. This is just a ... a hobby of mine. Wondering what it would have been like if we all knew each other in another life.”

Mordred looked oddly remorseful, even though he hadn’t been talking. “We don’t mean you any harm,” he said. “In fact, we know that the world went wrong because the Old Religion was attacking you. We want to help.”

Curiously, Merlin heard no sound after that, and for a few seconds he couldn’t see anyone, in the black world he’d entered. His magic was buried deep inside him, as if it were hiding, and there was no other sensation.

 

He came to himself to find Morgana across the table and Arthur next to him, holding a glass of water (the orange slice peremptorily tossed, judging from its presence across the table, with water drops showing its path) to his lips. “Drink this now, Merlin,” he said, in the voice Merlin found curiously familiar for never having heard it, a voice of someone who knew what he was doing and expected others to trust his judgement. Merlin obeyed and drank the water, and then sat there, his head on Arthur’s shoulder, held up by a strong arm.

Arthur continued to talk. “Stop looking so worried, Morgana. None of us knew that reincarnation was some kind of trigger for Merlin. Let’s just change the subject. Do you folks still do that going-into-the-field part of Morgause’s lecture? Where you identify the “sacred” and “magical” sections of Oxbridgeshire?”

Morgana replied enthusiastically, an answer which seemed to boil down to “yes,” but touched on Excalibur Park and the countryside outside Welly’s. Arthur’s hand was stroking slowly up and down Merlin’s side. He hadn’t done that sort of touching, except perhaps with Guinevere, but it was pleasant, and it belonged. Morgana was here – Merlin couldn’t just drift off. Morgana wanted to kill Arthur. And holy crap! Mordred was here, and he had killed Arthur.

Merlin shook his head impatiently. He’d been falling asleep and dreaming. Morgana was perfectly nice and even polite again, and Mordred was pleasant to talk to. They’d said some odd things, but Arthur said once you were in the College, you tended to talk in riddles and obscurities. He didn’t know who this Guinevere was, so it was highly unlikely she existed, let alone as Arthur’s girlfriend. Especially since Arthur had told him not so long ago that he was gay. And that had been such good news.

“So tell me, Mordred,” he said pleasantly, “where did you first encounter cornichons?”

 

Merlin, did you put little crust animals on our pastries?

 

Yes, I got inspired by our lunch. Made them with magic.

 

What did they represent?

 

They were elephants.

 

I think you need to go to art school before you do that again. The Department of Health just dropped in to check on the reported cockroaches seen occupying the bakery case.

 

Must have been Proctor Jeffries. He needs new glasses, poor old guy.

 

I’m sure. All the same, when you’re going to get creative with magic, let me know in advance, will you?

 

I’m going to get creative with magic, Arthur.

 

You appall me. Any particular date?

 

Any time, any day, till the end of forever...

 

If you must get creative, how about installing some background music?

 

Your wish is my command, oh Lord.


	6. Complicating Matters

Weeks later, they got back to Merlin’s place still arguing about the film they’d watched that evening. Merlin mentioned the Bechdel principle; Arthur scoffed and said that women talking about killing a man was the same as women talking about dating one. As had become almost customary by now, Arthur followed Merlin in, waving off his bodyguards to hang out in the common area while he and Merlin took turns with the recalcitrant lock on the apartment. Also as customary, Leon waited till they managed to make it work, arguing about W-D 40 vs. magic, and then politely slid past them to be sure no one was waiting inside.

Merlin closed his eyes and checked for himself magically, but Leon was almost as fast, and slithered out nearly unnoticeably as Merlin put the kettle on.

“And one more thing – that background music –“ Arthur said, and then stopped suddenly. Without the distraction of witnesses, Arthur’s full attention returned to Merlin, and he saw that Merlin’s hand was shaking a little as he poured the tea.

It dawned on Arthur that, for Merlin, he’d be unusually silent during their ... well, he could privately call it a date, though he didn’t know what Merlin thought about it.

“Are you all right?” he asked, dropping a hand onto the pot to lessen the spilling of drops onto the counter.

Merlin let him, also a red flag. He glanced at Merlin’s face, and saw that his lips were pressed tight. Now he thought about it, Merlin was wound tighter than a ball of rubber bands.

“Look,” Arthur said. “It appears you’re not.” He pushed the kitchen chair back a bit and pushed gently until Merlin sat on it. “I’ll take the tea to the lads, and you drink some.” He scooped in Merlin’s usual teaspoon of sugar, and then another one, before he splashed in the milk and, finally, the steeped tea. Arthur refrained from his usual comments about milk making the tea something else entirely. He stirred and put it before Merlin.

“Here, you drink this, and I mean all of it,” he said severely. “By the time I get back.”

Lance and Leon were clearly a little surprised to have Arthur serving them tea, but said nothing about it. Arthur waffled a bit, then said, “Get comfortable. We may be here a long time. Merlin needs to talk.”

By the time he got back from the minor teasing that elicited, Merlin’s tea cup was empty and he waved it, smiling.

“You can’t distract me that easily, Emrys. Something’s going on with you.”

Since Merlin’s bed sit was mostly table with three chairs and bed, they perched on the bed as Merlin took a deep breath and then some tea.

“It’s nothing, Arthur, I swear.”

“Don’t swear when you’re lying.”

Merlin bumped his shoulder. “Well, I’m not lying... precisely. I’ve just been having ... really bad dreams. I wake up sweating and screaming. But I can’t remember them really.”

“What do you remember?” Merlin had put his tea cup down and was twisting his hands together. Arthur took one, feeling awkward, and held it tightly. Merlin didn’t pull away.

“Just... screaming horses, screaming men, and the sound of... I don’t know what. Nothing I recognize. Metal hitting metal, I think, like sword fights in black and white movies. And a long, long silence. With birds and wind in the trees, but it all seemed... wrong.”

He was shaking again, and Arthur let go of his hand in order to sling an arm around his shoulder, still more aware of Merlin than what he was saying.

“Those don’t sound really awful. They sound like old-fashioned battles, really. Before people knew how to do real damage.”

Merlin glared at him. “Right. Because slicing people up and leaving them to die of blood loss and tetanus and gangrene and bacteria in general never did _real_ damage the way a bullet through the brain does.”

“I was talking about efficiency, Merlin.” Arthur was ready with his most condescending illustration, and then, for the first time in his life, stopped talking. Maybe with Merlin he had to be more like his mother than his father. Ygraine could always calm Uther down the way no one else could. What would Ygraine say?

He pulled his arm tighter until Merlin was flush against him, looking for inspiration. His father had taught him many things, but comforting was not one. Finally, he opted for simple truth.

“I’m sorry. People can have awful dreams which don’t have the same resonance to others. It sounds like they really hurt you, having them.”

Merlin looked at him with that special face Arthur had never seen him use on anyone else; a combination of surprise, appreciation, and outright fondness. He felt Merlin’s arms snug around him, keeping them tightly together.

“Yeah, that’s it. It sounds like nothing – though maybe my subconscious was putting me on a battlefield – but I wake up screaming, and I can’t shake the feeling that something terrible is happening – on the order of the Earth dropping out of orbit and falling into the sun.”

On Ygraine’s second strategy of remaining silent when there’s nothing to say (something else really hard for Arthur) he sat there and waited till Merlin was ready to say more.

“It’s been awful. It started about a week ago. Now I’m scared to fall asleep, so I haven’t had much.”

A week ago. What had happened a week ago? Arthur and Merlin’s lunch with the grad students, Morgana and Mordred. A weird lunch, admittedly, but not exactly the stuff bad dreams are made of. Except, perhaps, the vegan salmon. Nonetheless, Merlin had done something very near fainting then.

“You need to sleep. I’m saying that as the day manager, mind. We need healthy, energetic employees.”

Merlin smiled, and it was still that fond smile. “Yes, of course. Because that’s all I am to you – your employee.”

“Supervising is a job requiring sacrifice, Merlin. You’ll know that yourself if you ever achieve my promotion level.”

“I can’t, prat. Because your next promotion is likely to be to King of Albion.”

“Try for a little ambition, then. You might someday be Day Manager of Sisters.”

“Yes, because specializing in Physics is no one’s ambition.”

He sighed, and Arthur ruffled his hair. He knew it wasn’t Merlin’s ambition, at least, regardless how good he was at it. “You can be King, then,” he said cheerfully, or at least trying for it. “I’d rather be the Day Manager, really. More breaks, less attention.”

They sat there for awhile. Arthur didn’t want to leave the warmth of Merlin’s body curled around him. The shaking had stopped. He felt much less anxious than usual, and he hoped Merlin was feeling the same.

Merlin broke the silence. “Arthur,” he said abruptly, then stopped.

“Use your words, Merlin. I know you have more words than most people; I’ve heard them.”

Merlin stiffened a little, then took a deep breath. “Arthur, would you stay here tonight? I don’t mean... I mean... I wouldn’t be scared to fall asleep if you were here. Gods know why. You couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag.”

“And yet I’ve beaten you at wrestling.” They both blushed at that; it had been a spur of the moment match, ended when each of them found a part of their body more reactive than expected.

“I stopped.”

“I stopped after you, so that means I won.” Arthur brushed Merlin’s cheek. “And because I am so heroic a fighter, despite your doubts, it’s obviously my duty to stay. Noblesse oblige.”

“Really?” Merlin began to glow. Damn that smile. Arthur would do anything for that smile.

“Yes, of course. Though don’t expect me to sleep on the floor. Your damned bed takes up half the flat anyway; there’s room for both of us.”

“Okay.”

Arthur wandered into the hall and reported to his guards – really, did he actually need them? They had pulled out the pocket chess set and were passing their time looking intellectual. And why had it not occurred to him that telling them he was staying over would lead to assumptions that, without invading Merlin’s privacy, he couldn’t correct?

“Congratulations, Sire.”

“I’m just staying over, you know. I mean... with Merlin.”

“We assumed that.” They were smirking – he wished Gwaine were on duty tonight. Gwaine’s smirks were always about sex, or sex and alcohol in combination. Nobody would mind one of Gwaine’s smirks because he never got his mind off sex. But Lance looked strange with a smirk.

“You can nap on the couches out here, I suppose. You’d notice if someone invaded the building to assassinate me?”

“Oh yes, that’s pretty noticeable activity,” Leon said, trying to hide his smirk and look serious. “And that pitiful little window has small panes with lead around; it’d take long enough to break in that way one of you might wake up. If you were asleep, I mean.”

Arthur closed his eyes and imagined abdicating his throne. Then he could be nothing but the Day Manager of Sisters, living on very little income besides his trust fund, which would be enough to buy him and Merlin a 16th century cottage in the country surrounding here... He rolled his eyes.

“All right,” he said, channelling his father by being brusque and emphatic. “Mind you don’t disturb us for anything less than home invasion.”

“Yes sir,” they chorused, and he returned to Merlin with hot cheeks.

While Arthur was out being teased, Merlin had turned down the bed, finished his night routine, and climbed in wearing nothing but boxers and an old t-shirt which said,

**I’ve checked my privilege**   
**and you’re still full of shit**

Arthur had not seen this before – presumably its shabbiness and philosophy had relegated it to pyjama status years ago – and was thankful he hadn’t. The mostly-political staff, not to mention the clientele, of Sisters would not approve.

He was not in the habit of carrying his toothbrush with him, so climbed into bed with even less than the basic hygiene Merlin had (presumably) observed. He lay on his side and stretched out an arm, and Merlin, miraculously silent, inched over to him, and laid his head on the arm, near Arthur’s shoulders.

All felt as it should be; not just for the night, but for always. Here he was, sleeping next to Merlin, and it felt they always had slept like this. Arthur caught an image or so in his own fading brain, of nights camping out (though without tents, oddly) curled up with Merlin for body warmth, a small fire banked, and the woods oddly empty of other humans. But there was the sweet, familiar smell of oaks and the occasional evergreen, of leaf mould, of fall and that boar which they would capture tomorrow, if Merlin for once could hold his ground... and Arthur was asleep.



 Merlin was in a green, sunny forest. It was spring, or perhaps midsummer. Birds sang, and the occasional squirrel or rabbit drifted by on their own errands. He was exhausted from fighting and holding his body still, stiff, not crying. At least, not so the man who didn’t believe in tears could hear.

Arthur was in his arms, his head resting on Merlin’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Merlin,” he was saying, and somehow, that was it. The other half of him, the greatest King which should ever have been, was dying, leaving behind their destiny as it should have been, their alliance. But worst of all, leaving.

He began to scream at the sky, and at the Disir who had ordained this.

And everything was darkness.

He slowly realized that someone was shaking his arm, hard little jerks that must have been going on for a while. Someone was saying his name.

“Merlin! Merlin! Wake up, Merlin, it’s just a dream!”

He blinked his watery eyes and peered upwards to see a dark shape bent over him. They’d forgotten to close one set of blinds, and just enough light from the dawn and the street came in so he could tell the shape was Arthur. Suspended for seconds in two separated centuries, he stared at the friend he’d known for many years – and had met a month ago.

“Merlin, say something! Wake up!”

“Arthur.... Ar... you’re not dead.”

The shaking abruptly stopped. The hand which had been jerking him softened, and slid around his neck.

“No, I’m right here. I’m fine. Wake up, Merlin..”

Merlin clutched Arthur’s sweatshirt. “You were dead! You were... I saw you die, Arthur. You died at Camlann.”

“No, I didn’t. I’m right here. Rather suddenly woken up, but I’m here. You’re safe, Merlin. It was only a dream...”

The soothing and hardly meaningful phrases were flowing over him like warm water, like the lake shore near Avalon. Merlin came back to the present, and began to choke, great snorting sobs. He turned his head so Arthur wouldn’t notice – though the sounds could hardly be anything else.

“Merlin, it’s all right. I’m fine. You’re fine.” Arthur’s voice was taking on a slightly bewildered tinge. He’d never been terribly good at comforting, Merlin recalled, and there wasn’t much else he could say about a dream. He didn’t know... he didn’t know --- Merlin was finding it hard to breathe. He felt strange, the way he’d suddenly felt in Welly’s when Morgana was speaking. This time, though, he knew why.

The next minutes were confused. He came to himself breathing in clean detergent smell, something firmly over his mouth.

“What the fuck, Arthur?” The question came out muffled.

“Ah good, it’s working. Blow.” Arthur moved the handkerchief up a fraction at Merlin’s snort. He would have refused, but snot dripping out of his nose wasn’t his best look. He obeyed.

Arthur folded the hanky, wiped Merlin’s face, and tossed it into the rubbish bin.

“Arthur, why am I in this position?”

“You were choking to death on your own snot. Or maybe just going to vomit, but I loathe that.” Merlin rolled over, back into the bed, and Arthur obliged by coming with him, chest to chest, pulling the blanket over as he came.

“Okay, I’m going to repeat myself. You were having a bad dream. It wasn’t real.”

“The problem is, it was.”

“Huh?”

“It was real. I mean, it was a dream, but it was a memory.” The thought of Arthur’s death started him shaking again.

He felt two warm hands on each side of his face, and then soft lips touching his forehead, his nose, his cheekbones – by then Merlin got the idea, and reached out to intercept Arthur’s lips with his own, as they traced down his face.

For a moment, he thought he’d misunderstood, and Arthur was simply trying a new method of comfort, for the lips stayed, pressing in, unmoving. But clearly Arthur was simply trying to keep up with the mood change, as he pulled away a little to assess Merlin’s face, then plunged down again, hands and legs and mouth all involved in an octopus sort of reaction which left Merlin breathless.

Yes, it was good. It was much better than whatever had been worrying him a minute ago. Arthur was a really good kisser – maybe they had lessons in that, too, in the posh public school he’d attended. And he was enthusiastic, notching up the mouth on mouth action with just the right amount of tongue, nibbling at Merlin’s neck, climbing onto Merlin and moving his hips to just the right position to match Merlin’s cock with his own. Merlin pushed up, greedy for a harder contact, and he heard Arthur gasp.

That was a good thing. He slipped his hands into Arthur’s boxers experimentally, feeling the lush, smooth skin he’d longed to touch for ages now, guilty because at night, he was fantasizing about Albion’s crown princeprince, and that seemed somehow wrong.

But it didn’t feel wrong now, because Arthur squeaked when Merlin made handfuls of his round, hard butt, and pushed back himself, hard enough that all Merlin could think of then was more! More! He reached up, trying to pull Arthur’s sweatshirt off, and that was when he noticed Arthur was removing his own boxers. That led to a mild entanglement, Merlin grunting in frustration and Arthur glaring at him as if it were Merlin’s fault that Arthur’s hands wouldn’t let go of the waistband for long enough to allow Merlin’s hands to pull them through his sleeves.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Merlin grunted finally, and dropped the sweatshirt. “I’ll get mine, you get yours.”

“That’ll work,” Arthur said, his soothing voice changed to something a bit breathless. “Only hurry, you idiot. I’m cold.”

Merlin thought they should have removed their clothes at the beginning, but then, what beginning counted? He’d planned on a completely platonic night, and presumably Arthur had too; there hadn’t been any of the little touches, even accidental ones, which hinted he might want otherwise. There’d been a little flirting, but not enough to be certain. It was good to find out that Arthur wasn’t feeling platonic about him, unless perhaps the drama of the night itself...

Merlin, his legs in the air as he removed the boxers, Arthur now naked and watching him hungrily, stopped at this thought.

“Arthur, you’re not one of those people who are attracted to fucked-up people, are you?”

“What? What kind of question is that? No, I’m only attracted to well-bred human beings who wear designer clothes and go to the same parties as the ones I enjoy, of course. That’s why you and I never interact.”

“Well, I was crying. There are people who just get turned on by –“ Merlin stopped with a squeal as Arthur reached up, yanked his pants off, and wrestled him so they were facing each other side by side.

“I’m not sure which of us you’re insulting more,” he said, in that arrogant voice Merlin had somehow grown to like. “We’ve been on three dates now –“

“We have?”

“We have. Admittedly I was taking it a little slow, but apparently you were clueless. So I win.”

“You don’t win anything. You can’t compete for who knows what a date is.”

“I’m a prince. I can so. And I won. At any rate –“ and here Arthur began kissing his way across Merlin’s chest. “You can object right now or hold your peace. I’m good at sleeping in chairs, much better than sleeping next to someone I desperately want.”

“You want me?” Merlin asked, his voice small. Arthur rolled his eyes.

“Talk later, shag now.”

That seemed like a good plan to Merlin, emphasized as it was by mouth and hands. He reached up for those strong shoulders and discovered no resistance when he pulled Arthur down on top of him.

After that it was lovely. It was if they had always been lovers, and knew just where to touch. Merlin discovered that Arthur was actually a little shy about asking, which was ridiculous, since it was Arthur and you’d think whoever had been in bed with him would have known he was a prat and not worried about it. But when Merlin put a light finger on his bollocks and trailed it down, Arthur moaned. He wiggled his arse a little closer, but otherwise did and said nothing.

Merlin hastily called up lube into his hand, and used it generously. He reached under Arthur a little and teased this perineum, triggering even more moaning.

Finally, he had to ask. “Is this okay, Arthur? I don’t have condoms, and anyway, I don’t know what you like.”

There was a quiet pause. “Can you sterilize... us, as you did the ice cream machine?”

“Hell no. Not that I can’t do what we need,” Merlin said hastily, as Arthur peered down on him, looking disappointed. “But if I did what I do in the cafe, you’d get boiling water all over your nether regions, which would not be a good time.”

“Don’t be so literal, then.”

Merlin was sufficiently annoyed to consider threatening to actually sterilize him, in a different sense, but decided with Arthur’s attitude toward duty and heirs as it was, better not. Instead, he put his hand on his own cock, and carefully traced its outlines to produce a serviceable condom, well-lubed and already in place.

Then he returned his fingers to where they were doing so much good, and had the double satisfaction of getting to push Arthur off him and clamber over his delicious arse.

On entering, he was surprised to find Arthur clutching him, wrapping his legs around Merlin’s torso as if he was afraid Merlin might escape. Merlin had no intention of moving one inch more than the few required for humping. He just enjoyed the sensation of being completely trapped by a warm, gasping, swearing Arthur, and gave as good as he got.

Arthur came first, aided by Merlin’s slicked hand, but his long, drawn out cry pulled Merlin’s orgasm from him right after, his rhythm falling apart in pleasure. He rolled away immediately to magic the condom away – there had been that embarrassing incident awhile ago, when he’d fallen asleep, and rather than disappear in the night, it had grown, and grown, until it was the size of the bottom sheet – and it engorged the amount of semen with it, so he’d woken up to something which felt very like a plastic water bed, sloshing under him and a stranger he’d met at the club. The stranger had looked at the condom, and at Merlin, and had departed rather precipitately, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head. Presumably, whatever explanation he came up with for the sheet-size plastic bag filled with come that did not involve magic did involve anxiety and distrust.

Merlin hadn’t seen him again.

He turned back to Arthur, who was still lying on his belly, panting from their exertion. He lightly stroked Arthur’s hair, because he could. “You good?”

“Yeah. Come here.” He pulled Merlin close, the sheet and blanket just to their knees, because they were still warm from the exertion. He wrapped himself less demandingly around Merlin’s body, and kissed his shoulder.

“You okay?”

“Uh huh.” Merlin was tired enough he thought it might be safe to sleep. But Arthur had always been a focused person.

“Now, tell me what you know about the dream.”

Merlin blinked. “I think I just got whiplash.”

“It was a bad one, and I like uninterrupted sleep. Hence, let’s just hear the story of the dream, okay? Then we can sleep. Or at least do something else.” He stroked Merlin's chest meaningfully.

Merlin stared at his ceiling and all its familiar cracks. “It wasn’t just a dream, Arthur. It was a memory.”

“A memory?”

“It happened a... very long time ago. 1500 years, maybe. You were the king of a place called Camelot, and I was your servant.”

“Camelot? Odd name.”

“We loved it. Both of us. It was a fine castle, except for your father, Uther. He had lost his wife – your mother – in childbirth, and blamed the magical intervention which enabled her to carry to term.”

“Weird. My mum – Queen Ygraine – had some obscure problem I never paid much attention to. We almost lost her when I was born; she was in the ICU for weeks. You probably read about that somewhere and that’s how it got into your subconscious."

Merlin sniffed irritably. “No, I told you, this is a memory. Though it is weird the birth problems happened twice, with different interventions and different outcomes.”

“It’s why Father dislikes Professor Nimueh so much. She was my mum’s best friend and was always on about “natural birth” and “doulas” and such, so he blames her for keeping my mum from a doctor for so long.”

Merlin let his drowsy mind go over what he could remember – it was remembering, he was sure – and found that fit with what he knew from the first birth.

“So, what else?”

“Your sister Morgana betrayed you and declared war to take over Camelot and rule.”

“What, the same Morgana we know?? She actually is related to me, but hardly a sister. But she’s not that sort at all – she was great training me, and didn’t complain when they made me day manager, except to suggest once that if I didn’t have “Prince” before the Arthur, I would have stayed a barista boy my whole life. She’s always giving coffee away to stray people who look hungry, and all the tea food we don’t sell, every night. She says it’s to keep it fresh, and we’re doing better now than when it just sat in the case till mouldy, but it’s obviously her soft heart. She can be awfully snippy, but... oh well, you’re confusing your dream with memory, Merlin. Because I’m DM and she’s got a scholarship now.”

“She changed, in those days. She wore gorgeous dresses and seduced men, but after she met her half sister, she lost her... herself, I guess. Her sister was Morgause, and I killed her. Well, injured her so she was dying.”

“At that battle where I died?”

“No, years before. Morgana never forgave me. I tried to poison her, too when she was just beginning to be an enemy. I did finally kill her just before you were wounded.”

Arthur rolled over on an arm and stared at Merlin. “You killed her sister, you tried to kill her, you did kill her, and yet you wonder why her personality changed.”

Merlin glared at him.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Look at you, all goose eggs. You should have said something.” He pulled the covers back up and tucked them in under Merlin. Warmed by this attention, Merlin didn’t point out that he was now immobilized.

“Goose bumps, clotpole. Goose eggs means zeroes.”

“Well, it’s vulgar either way. So you killed Morgana. Anyone else?”

“Agravaine. He was your uncle. And others. But only for you. Always for you.”

Arthur looked rather pleased. “So you liked me that much even then?”

“And more, I guess. Anyway, Morgana had made friends with a Druid, and he was destined to kill you. Kilgarrah told me to kill him. The Disir were after you to, to judge you...”

“The Disir? Merlin, you’re not saying _that_ old myth is true?”

Merlin shuddered. “I remember them. A lot of the old religion is truer than the new ones. And they said if you accepted the old religion, and the goddesses, they could change your destiny. But... my fault. I wanted Mordred to die, and the Disir could make him live. He was horribly hurt. But if he didn’t die, he was destined to kill you. So I talked you into refusing them, and said magic had no place, would never have a place, at Camelot. And they made him live, and he killed you with a poisoned sword. And everything was my fault.”

Arthur was silent. “You really believe all this.”

“It happened, Arthur. I told you – my dreams are memories. And I lost you for so long.... I swear every day since, I’ve missed you, because when you came swaggering into Sisters to chew me out, it just felt so right. Like you were the other half of me, come back at last.”

Arthur puffed out his nose. “I believe you believe it. But to say all these harmless academics were murderous psychopaths, and that the old goddesses – the Fates of the Celts, really – lived and affected my life – no, affected my death ... that’s just a bit far-fetched, you’ll have to admit.”

Merlin kept silent. He’d learned nothing could keep Arthur talking like not saying anything.

It worked again. “Come to think of it, it’s really far-fetched that you think a dream is a memory. That must have been from what Morgana said about reincarnation.”

More silence.

“Come on, Merlin, you don’t really believe this? You don’t really believe I’ll believe this?”

Merlin sighed. “Just forget it, then.”

Arthur punched him – lightly – on the arm. “I don’t want to forget it. Obviously you’re not going to forget it.”

“What would it take for you to believe it?”

“I suppose ... meeting the Disir. Or going back in time. Or for you to do something completely impossible, like transporting us to the moon or... or stopping time.”

“Oh, that one’s easy,” Merlin sighed. He grabbed Arthur’s hand and rolled out of bed, leading him to the window.

The view from Merlin’s bedsit was of the street, not far from Sisters. He’d missed his college’s view, but the street was actually far better for his present purposes. Cars were frozen in place, as were pedestrians. A robin still hovered just above some invisible worm. Everything was silent.

Arthur took a breath and held it. Merlin had to push him a bit before he even was distracted enough from the tableau to breathe out again. “Holy shit.”

“Precisely. It’s not completely impossible. Neither is my remembering that we had a life together long ago, and also a destiny, which was aborted because I kept screwing up.”

Arthur pulled his eyes away from the window. “Now _that_ , I can believe. It’s not even improbable.” But then he saw Merlin’s face and pulled an arm around him in an uncomfortably tight hug. “In a way, I’m glad the College didn’t admit you. You would have destroyed their nice balance between not believing in magic and **_really_ ** not believing in magic.”

Merlin laughed, and the coldness between them warmed up again.

As they showered and dressed, Arthur seemed to be inside his head; he didn’t even respond to Merlin’s attempt to make the shower a chance for a little more action. But once dressed, he grabbed Merlin and started nibbling at his neck, making Merlin’s attempts to button his shirt (it was a day off) difficult.

“Tell you what, Mighty Sorcerer,” he said, between bites (and a few kisses sneaking around Merlin’s face at random) “I’ll suspend all disbelief, as the drama teacher used to say about watching plays. In exchange, you won’t try to rub my nose in the possibility that we’ve been through all this before.” Merlin promised. After all, telling Arthur what had happened wouldn’t count as rubbing his nose in it.

“By the way, Your Highness,” he added. “When you leave a note for me, you might drop it in the “in” box of the back room. No one ever looks at that.”

“Do you?”

“Someone has to.”

“I have a better idea.”

“Unlikely.”

“Let’s just text.”

He had Arthur’s secret, private number now. In the lexicon of courtship behaviour, surely that counted for something. As, admittedly, would sex and secrets.

They _were_ dating.


	7. A Pause for Conversation

 

 

Are you free tomorrow night, Merlin?  
  
Good thing you put my name. Otherwise I’d think you’re asking someone else.  
  
Just you. I promise.  
  
What will we do?  
  
Oh, catch a jet to America and get hired on as cowboys in South Dakota, maybe.  
  
There are too many things wrong with that idea to fit in a text.  
  
Come over tomorrow night and I’ll give you takeaway. And prescribe bed rest.  
  
You’re not very restful in a bed.  
  
Please? I have a haircut that afternoon, but I’ll spend the rest of the time waiting anxiously.  
  
Won’t be free till 9, but I can get someone else to close up. Don’t cut your hair.  
  
9:05 it is, then. Why not?  
  
You know why. 

_**A few days later:** _

Note on desk:

Prat. The cleaners will see.

 

Note on lamp:

Let them

 

Note on floor:

We need more Jaffa Cakes.

 

_**T** **he next day:** _

 

 

> _When I was matriculating, I wanted to major in history. My father said no, that wasn’t appropriate for a king. Then I suggested business administration. So my father chose politics and theories of diplomacy._
> 
> _I didn’t like it, Merlin. I’m much better at running Sisters than I’m going to be at running the country. Especially if, as you say, we’re supposed to rewrite our own failures from the last time we tried. See? I’m acting as if I believe you. It helps that I seem to have caught your nightmares – only true to our positions, mine are daymares, coming along as visions whenever my body is in a certain positions. The other night when we were experimenting with... well, you know? I suddenly had a flashback to riding my horse. I even remember its name: Hengroen, though what that means I can’t remember any more. I’ll look it up later. I wasn’t just riding, though – I had an enormous sword in my hand, and was swinging it at several armed and armoured people on foot who were trying to stop me._
> 
> _I think I would be even better at that kind of work than running Sisters – or a chain of coffee shops, which would be more fun than just one. My father th_ _inks I’m too soft to be King; don’t know what my mum thinks, because she only tells me what she likes about me when I bring it up. Perhaps my father’s right. Perhaps I should reign with a sword in my hand, to build up my confidence. It’s low tonight._
> 
> _So – your turn. I’ve told you something that you could sell for lots of money. Tell me something back. – Arthur_

 

* * *

_  
_

>   
>  _Of course I’ll tell you something; any secret about me you want to know. But there aren’t many, really. My biggest secret – that I can do any magic I try, basically – is only a secret because no one particularly believes me. Except you. So I guess the biggest secret is that I need you to believe me. Or maybe, need you, period. I like having someone around who picks on me one minute but who’s always got my back. And I like your hair, in case the many comments when we happen to meet up privately aren’t a hint. And your sky-coloured eyes, and your beautiful, muscled thighs like nutcrackers... well, you get the idea. But mostly how you worry about your crew, just as you worried about Camelot long ago. Don’t worry if you’re qualified, Arthur. You are far more qualified than your father, or anyone else I know, to be King, because you’re the only one I know who has what Kings were supposed to be, and never were, built into you: you think your job is to serve your people. And, judging from the things you say when we walk about the countryside, you also think your job is to protect that land._
> 
> _So trust me, if you take on Albion, and Gramarye as well (they’re the physical and metaphysical parts of this island, in case you haven’t figured it out) you’ll be the greatest king they’ve ever had. I just worry that somehow we’re going to screw up again and fail Gramarye... and therefore Albion._
> 
> _Okay, got off the subject there. Here’s my secret which could harm me – or which gives you power over me, anyway:._
> 
> _I love you. I always have, and I always will._
> 
> _There. Now you know._
> 
> _\--Merlin_

 

Merlin --  
  
Meeting my mum for dinner. I'll show up after at your place. Your secret's safe with me. --A  
  



	8. Different Conversations

Ygraine tried to see her son at least once a week. Occasionally, Uther came down to Oxbridge and they made it a family gathering. But she secretly preferred the quiet little meals alone with Arthur, followed by some activity like a game or a trip to a concert or one of the many guest lecturers or theatrical performances available in their town.

Arthur was so much her son it was eerie. He’d been a quiet little boy, switching occasionally to overbearing when he was trying to impress someone, usually another visiting little boy or one of his cousins. He expressed contempt for the lighter sort of performances -- comedians, tumbling, the circus, performing animals, and the sports events Uther took him to for special treats. But Ygraine had noticed that once he was there, he became enthralled, particularly by riding contests, polo, and fencing matches.

Those were events he’d learned to compete in, though he performed surprisingly poorly on the epee. “It’s too light, Mum,” he explained once, when she asked him. “It’s not really a weapon, except for show-offs. It’s boring.” Since Uther always thought “his boy” should be the best at anything he took on, Ygraine had bribed Arthur by promising him his very own sword to practice on, if he won the fencing competition the young students would have at the end of turn.

Arthur was nothing if not driven. He might not choose to do it just to please his father, but to please both, and to gain his preferred weapon, seemed enough to ensure that he won, and handily.

He picked out not a duelling sword of any sort, but a medieval longsword which he’d found in his searches on the internet – most of the swords he loved the best were printed out and stuck on the wall of his room, something neither of his parents approved, but was too minor a transgression to object to. After discussion, Uther took him out of the fencing class and hired a private trainer in medieval swordplay. Arthur had spent three years learning everything he could, and only stopped training when he was sent off to school.

These thoughts went through her head as she jogged past Excalibur Park, her own bodyguard following at the prescribed 10 feet, remembering when Arthur had first seen the monument. He’d stopped, enthralled, and then ran straight toward the stone. “Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!” he’d shouted in his five-year-old soprano, shrieking when he reached up toward the hilt but couldn’t grab it.

Ygraine had snatched him away, disturbed by his immediate fascination with it. That had been the event which had caused her and Uther to start him with epee training. She also made sure that Arthur never went through Excalibur Park again. It couldn’t be seen from a street, so that was solved; Arthur had never been the sort of boy who liked to explore parks. He insisted on wild places where he could get lost and show off his tracking skills, and rocks he could climb and show off climbing skills. Come to think of it, Arthur had an overall tendency to show off, period.

She showered and changed and hurried to the restaurant where they were meeting. They air kissed, as they did in public, and settled, prepared to be stuffed and served.

She looked at her beautiful son, now happily investigating their sushi, tempura, and tsukemono array and insulting every other piece on the dishes, sorting out the approved vegetarian offerings next to his udon. I hope he finds someone who doesn’t feed his narcissism, she thought. She couldn’t resist tucking a stray lock of hair back behind his ear.

“You need a haircut,” she told him.

For some reason, Arthur blushed. “I’m growing it out a bit,” he said. “Mer... someone told me I’d look better with longer hair.”

“Really?” She used her chopsticks to steal back one of the sweet potato tempura pieces, a favourite of both of them. “This someone must pay careful attention to your appearance. Someone I should know about?”

The blush deepened. Her boy might actually be involved with this someone.

“Just a friend.”

The last few weeks, their regular Saturday night together had been less regular – earlier, later, and once even cancelled. She had been singularly unobservant.

“What’s his name?”

Arthur started looking around the room, as if for rescue. None was forthcoming. Her bodyguards and his simply ate their food, looking around carefully, taking turns. They always doubled up when two of the Pendragons were together, since so much of the royal together time was spent in public places with lots of entrances. The head of security had tried to dissuade her from going out with Arthur as much, but why live in Oxbridge during the year if one couldn’t be – someone who just lived in Oxbridge?

“Whose name?” Arthur finally asked lamely. Ygraine laughed and patted his cheek.

“Your friend, the one who recommended you grow your hair a bit.”

“Umm, his name’s Merlin.”

“That’s a nice name. Where do you know him from?”

“I – he’s in charge of the night shift at Sisters. We got to know each other because we both have some responsibility.”

“I think I met him once.” Ygraine thought back to the young, serious boy who had sorted the votes for chair, and seemed to have struggled somewhere in the middle. The Agravaine faction of the faculty – at least, the ones she was certain of – had looked at him suspiciously afterward, as if he had cheated. But he’d seemed a nice boy. Morgause had told her later that there was something odd happening, but she and Morgana needed to investigate quietly, and the boy had been coping with it very well, with powers which were hard to define.

“Mum,” Arthur said, putting down his utensils and looking at her seriously, “Do you believe in reincarnation?”

Ygraine tried to imagine what this had to do with Merlin. More likely, it was her slightly awkward son trying to change the topic. Well, he wouldn’t, but they’d get back to that when he was a little less defensive.

She gave due consideration to his question.

“I’ve seen things which work like magic, although they’re undoubtedly coincidence,” she said slowly. ”When you were being born, I promised all the goddesses that if you survived – which wasn’t certain right then – I would dedicate your life and mine to bringing back magic to the world and allowing it to thrive again. Right afterward, you began breathing, but of course, there were all sorts of medical personnel trying to make that happen. Still... to this day, I swear I heard three voices chorusing in my head, He will have another chance. This time, see that he doesn’t fail. Help him.” Which certainly suggest that you at least had been through birth before. Still...

“I’m not sure I believe in anything,” she said finally, sipping her water. “I mean, to the point that I could say yes, I believe in it. Of course, I believe that once there was magic on this earth, born from the elements, carried by humans to keep them in touch with the Goddess – or with some gods, at any rate, or whatever one feels should be called a god; a power greater than any of us. I have seen small acts of what can only be called magic, at least until those colleagues of mine like Elyan Smythe finds a material reason for it. And if magic did exist, and if it could alter the flow of time, or change the destiny of someone, or take a king and have his blood heal the land, like that old story of the Fisher King you made me read you every single night when you were eight, then it seems logical that some people at least would be brought back through magic, perhaps more than once, to keep the world turning as it is supposed to.”

“And if we... they fail?”

“I suppose they might be let to come back and try again. Or someone more promising might be brought instead. It depends on the rules, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose.” Arthur stared at his apparently suddenly unappetizing sushi.”So if someone thought he ... or she... was remembering a long ago time where he and his companion had a destiny, but failed, you don’t think that’s utterly insane?”

Ygraine paused, and sorted out the sentence. “I suppose that it would depend a great deal on who thought that, and why. For many people, believing that would be simply narcissistic. There’d have to be evidence that he – and his companion – was special.”

Arthur was silent for a bit, no doubt thinking. Ygraine waited until he bit into his inari, and said, “Is the person who believes this your friend Merlin?”

Arthur stiffened, clearly trying to finish his sushi politely. Ygraine waited.

“Yes, it is.” He never could lie to his mother. He lied poorly enough to his father, who terrified him. Ygraine thought that was a pity, but Arthur had no defences, like the old religion, to know that the King served the land, not the other way around. Well, no defences except what she had taught to him, and read to him – no coincidence stories like the Fisher King were childhood books to read aloud.

“Do you think that he and his companion are special? In the way I mean, of course.”

“Of course.” Arthur winced. “Yes, I do, Mum. Merlin’s brilliant. He has magic beyond anything I’ve ever seen or read about. He wanted to apply for the College, but he was turned down because he didn’t have training in whatever it is the College tests.”

“I remember the discussion of someone who might have been Merlin,” Ygraine said thoughtfully. “Someone who could do quite a bit, the application committee reported, but had no theoretical background at all. They said his magic was mostly parlour tricks – starting a fire in the fireplace, making a ball of light to carry around in his hand. Nothing which couldn’t be replicated without magic.”

“They should have asked him to stop time,” Arthur told her grimly. “I think that’s not something most people do.”

“Stop time? But that’s impossible.”

“Not for Merlin. I watched him do it. And start it up again, too.”

Ygraine thought about this. “Well, then, dearest, your friend Merlin is very special indeed. And possibly in some danger of being harmed or exploited, if word got about. People have been seeking such evidence for centuries.”

“He’s not going to be hurt,” Arthur told her. “I’ll see to that.”

She sighed. “I doubt his magic could stop bullets, or reverse the effects of poison, or even survive being hit by a speeding car. I would not like you to be harmed with him.”

“I’ve got bodyguards, mum. And I’ve got Merlin. But I wish he could get into the College. I don’t suppose –“

“I will consider it, of course,” Ygraine said to him gently. “But it might not be a good idea for him. There would be a lot of jealousy and distrust. And it might not even be the appropriate place for him. If he can do such powerful magic, he seems more appropriate as faculty, although he doesn’t have the basic theoretical education – not even as much as you.”

“He’s a scholarship student, you see. He barely can afford a place to live and pot noodles. I’m thinking of getting him to move in with me, though – it would save him some money, and he needs some, because he’s always blowing it on books and access to paywalls.”

“What is his specialization now?”

“Physics. Not magical physics, but he’s interested in trying to find the parallels. He says magic has rules, or else it’s random, or depends on the superstition hiding in the Old Religion, and he’d like to know which.”

“He sounds intelligent, at least. And you think he would make a good flat mate?”

Arthur was definitely looking flustered again. “I don’t see why not. We get along well, and except for crazy things like sterilizing equipment by magic, he’s pretty good about keeping things clean.”

“What happens if one of you brings a date home?”

Arthur looked startled. “That won’t happen.”

Ygraine tried to think of a tactful way to ask her next question, but there wasn’t. Arthur simply wasn’t paying attention to how much he was revealing.

“My dear, are you seeing that boy?”

He went completely white, and she reached out and took his hand. A couple of people glanced up from their places around the room. This, their favourite place, had known acoustics, so she wasn’t worried anyone might hear – aside from the guards, who were between them and the other tables, and appeared not to be paying attention. Although the guards were trained to appear that way.

“Arthur, it’s all right. You can tell me, you know.”

“Father... wouldn’t like it if I were.”

“That’s perfectly possible, but I know that wouldn’t stop you from being gay, so there’d be another one if not him eventually. So few people understand why someone finds someone else attractive. Uther’s ideals for you therefore focus on your making good alliances with people who understand not to make scenes in public, and from what I’ve seen this boy is not precisely in Uther’s network. But Uther would adapt; he’s not as rigid as he seems. He loves you.”

Arthur mumbled something under his breath Ygraine chose not to hear.

“Tell me, Arthur. We need to get past this.”

“Okay then. Yes, I am. Very, very gay. Six on the Kinsey scale. I’ve known since I was 12, but couldn’t figure out a way to bring the subject up after that first note I wrote to you and asked you to tell Father. He hasn’t ever brought it up. And yes, to what you’re asking. Merlin and I... are seeing each other... Rather a lot of each other. In fact, I shall probably ask him to marry me when he’s through school.”

He blurted that last out the way he’d blurted out everything terribly important to him – that sword he wanted, the fact his polo coach had Arthur take off his shirt when he washed his ponies down, ostensibly to keep them dry, but then watched him washing them “standing sort of funny,” Arthur had said, and Uther had left the table calmly, politely excusing himself because he had just remembered a meeting he needed to cancel, but neither Ygraine nor Arthur had ever seen that coach again.

When he was 17, he had started at Uni, and asked his mother if he could matriculate at her college. She was willing, but Uther had put his foot down.

“No heir to the throne needs to learn theories of magic,” he said firmly. “He needs to learn policy, and geography, and useful sorts of information.”

She’d watched her son agree with him, his voice empty of emotion, after they’d discussed it. And she’d watched him as, year by year, he became a little more flat in his statements, a little less interested in Uther’s reports of political issues – and so much more arrogant to anyone he considered an inferior. Today was the first time in months – no, years – that he’d actually asked her a question he seemed to want to know the answer to. This was so different from the wildly curious Arthur of his childhood, she had worried.

But uni was not forever, and he had graduated, but stayed in the town, working at a small coffee house where he was almost the only man on staff. The others were gay, and it had never occurred to Arthur that this might say something about his own sexuality. He could be brilliant, and yet not put together basic human reasoning.

She smiled at him. “So are you in love?”

He didn’t answer, just ducked his head and nodded. She smiled, and he added, mumbling, “Gonna tell him so, later tonight.”

“Then next time we have dinner, please bring him. I would like to get to know him for your sake, and also for the College’s. And, of course I think I should know him well before we introduce him to your father.”

Arthur blinked, and nodded. “I hadn’t thought of that. All right, after Yule.”

“Agreed. Now finish your udon, dear, if nothing else. Chicken broth is so nourishing, and the cook here makes some of the most famous broth for noodles in the country.”

 

_**The Next Morning** _

Good morning luv...  
  
We don’t really have to get all sentimental about this, do we?.  
  
I spelt it with a u. Just because your emotions are completely shut down...  
  
They’re not. I’m just not an innately mushy person, Merlin.!  
  
That's not what you said last night.  
  
I didn’t say "innately." I said “at the risk of sounding.” That’s a totally different thing.  
  
You also said you liked my eyes.  
  
I never said I didn't.  
  
If I called you Arthur in public, instead of sir or whatever it is, it'd cause a scandal.  
  
Whereas "love" wouldn't?  
  
You're a massive clotpole! I spelt it with a U!  
  
And everyone listening can tell the difference between a "uv" and an "ove"?  
  
They shouldn't be eavesdropping anyway. But you're right. I need to come up with a code word for in public.   
  
You seem fond of 'clotpole.'  
  
Wouldn't work, they'd know it was a synonym for "Arthur" without the "sir." I know! Good Morning, Dearest!  
  
Remind me not to let you near the nuclear codes. Because you haven't a sneaky bone in your body.  
  
Good morning, dumpling?  
  
That's it. I'm going online and find some country which still tortures people, and I'm buying some stocks, and put you in them.  
  



	9. The Disir

They met at Excalibur Park in the early evening, as agreed. Arthur was as grumpy as he was when just wakened up.

“I could have driven you,” he said.

“I was at my place. It makes sense to meet.”

“I’ve been sitting in the car ten minutes. You’re never on time.”

Merlin, who had checked his watch when he arrived and knew he was still minutes early, pulled Arthur’s left hand off the steering wheel and kissed it. “I’m so terribly sorry, your Highness. Every clock in the castle was broken.”

Arthur grunted and pulled Merlin as close as he could get with the steering wheel chaperoning. The next few minutes were spent in wordless apology and forgiveness, to the satisfaction of both.

“Well, let’s get it over with,” Merlin sighed finally, wiping his mouth (and nearby sections showing signs of Arthur’s enthusiastic fondness for tasting his cheekbones and nose) with the prince’s own handkerchief.

Arthur slid out and, before Merlin could disentangle himself from steering wheel and handkerchief, punctiliously opened the passenger door.

“My my, from royal prince to chauffeur in 10 easy steps,” Merlin grinned, accepting a hand up from the car. Arthur, not being totally domesticated yet, punched him on the shoulder.

“Where do we go from here?”

“I look for magic sign.”

“Will they be fluorescent?”

Merlin shrugged. “To me, you great arse, yes. Tell you what. Let’s start with the main tourist attraction and then spread out from there.”

“What’s that?”

There was no one around in the evening shade, and Merlin took Arthur’s left hand. He’d noticed that since he’d had his memories, he always took a place to Arthur’s left, leaving the other free to fight with the weapons he no longer carried.

“Just a few steps through the park. It’s a carving of a sword in a stone. They discovered it in the 19th century, I think. It was miraculously preserved; only a little bit of the stone was chipped off, though the stone’s only granite or something. Some archaeologists have the theory that there’s a real sword inside the stone, but that would have to have been done by magic, of course. It would only be iron, or hammered steel, nothing fancy except for the trick of getting stone around it – what’s the matter?”

They had gotten near the carving now. Arthur had come to a complete stop and was staring at the monument. “I’ve seen this before.”

Merlin hesitated. “One like it, anyway. I was going to tell you that it was very like the one you carried yourself, but that one...”

Arthur ignored him. He dropped Merlin’s hand and climbed up the plinth using the stone itself for handholds, to where the sword stood, apparently stuck into the stone although that too must be part of the carving, and was clearly one piece.. “It’s mine. It’s meant for me. I know it is.” He strained toward the pommel, the stone just high enough that even his nearly two metres, standing on the plinth, could not quite help him reach it. “Merlin, get it for me?”

“Arthur,” Merlin said, and his voice nearly frightened him. It was the command voice of Emrys, most powerful sorcerer in all time and any land, trying not to panic though he had no idea why he should. “Come down from there.”

Arthur obeyed, grumbling. “I’ve seen it before, when I was a little boy. My mother must have brought me here... I remember screaming, and her having to drag me away. It’s not very far from our home... why did she not bring me here again?”

“Perhaps because she didn’t wish to drag a screaming little boy through the park on a regular basis?” Merlin suggested dryly.

Arthur moved around the plinth, stretched backward and taking in everything about the stone.

“Lovely length, perfect for my height, and there’s some kind of writing on the blade,” he said to himself. “How do they get that gold on only part of it? It’s not simply leaf. Gold leaf would be stupid on a working sword. That’s the one I wanted when Mother bribed me to win the fencing matches. I saw it in my head; there was nothing like it in the medieval clubs....”

Merlin reeled in his temper and told his magic to help his memory. He’d taken care of Arthur’s arms, long ago, and while this sword had the same shape as other ones, it was stone; nothing to fight with, unless Arthur had a fondness for whacking people on the head with the hilt. It called to him, nonetheless; and called to Arthur so powerfully that it was almost a geas, something which could bind him if he touched it... bind him to – what? 

There must have been some reason Merlin had looked up information about it, he thought, besides the arbitrary one that he’d seen it in the park every day on the way to work. He stretched his magic to feel it, but there was no magic emanating from it at all. It was as inert as a stone; more inert, because every stone he’d ever felt had a tiny, restless magical energy running through it. Everything did, even now. 

And then he knew. He remembered. Something must have blocked his memory before, and he thought he knew what.

He pulled himself up to the plinth with less trouble than Arthur had, and put his hand to the hilt. And he read the words on the stone, which he’d read in the Gable Library, the biggest and oldest in Oxbridge, and had not even noted, except to laugh. The words, scholars had concluded, were Brythonic, the proto-language ancestor to Cornish, Breton, Welsh and Cumbric (which was extinct; so much for Cumbria.) Therefore, translating had been a best-guess sort of thing, and then translated into Old English, for reasons which weren’t clear from the scholars’ notes. It now read, in more or less modern/old English: Whosoever pulleth this sword from this stone is rightwise born ruler of all Albion. At the time, he’d just thought, what sort of hubris had captured a mediaeval prankster to write such a thing – and perhaps it really read something like “The King will pay 3 fine sheep to the one who makes him this sword in metal.” Now...

He had done it himself. Twice. He remembered. Had taken the sword from Arthur’s unresisting hand (that alone showing how very dead he was) and brought it back to the sacred grove where Arthur had met his fate. What had happened to it after, he didn’t know.

But if the Prince of Albion managed somehow to pull that sword from the stone it was part of, a lot of questions would be asked, at probably the worst time ever to ask them. And Merlin knew that as soon as Arthur put his hand on the hilt, he would take up the sword, as it demanded he do. If, somewhere in that hard stone, there really was a magically-forged sword. Then, once he took it up, there would come a day he would die.

“We have something more important to do,” Merlin said, as heartlessly as possible. “something which will save the realm, and perhaps the world, and complete a task we failed at over a millennium ago. Does an old weapon mean that much?”

Arthur hesitated, but appealing to his duty always worked. He looked at it a little longer, and sighed. “I’m going to come back, after.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll even come with you.” _And try to figure out what this sword is doing back here, and if we’re going to need it to succeed._

The air around them was growing heavy with rain, or the promise of it: cold, with enough mist to sink into their clothes. Merlin closed his eyes and felt for where they needed to go; it wasn’t far. As he’d been advised, the sacred grove where the Disir dwelt was here. Perhaps it was always everywhere, and so no coincidence at all.

But it wasn’t coincidence so many of the villains of Camelot had gathered into the College of Magical Studies. So there was something here, something in their destiny gathered hard and haunting, waiting for them to strive once more.

“Merlin,” Arthur said suddenly, as they walked deeper into the woods, “Why did we fail before? How did we fail?”

“Mostly it was me,” Merlin said sadly. “I believed what the dragon said about who needed to be killed, but wasn’t brave enough to do it myself usually, and when I could, it turned out to be the wrong thing. I fell in love with you and made that more important than anything else, including your kingship and your destiny.”

“Who besides the dragon advised you?”

“Gaius tried, but he understood very little and only knew the stories. I couldn’t tell anyone else to ask them for advice.”

“Has it occurred to you that perhaps you were set up to fail, then?”

“If so, why, and by whom?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur admitted, “but I’m sure of one thing. I was the one trained in strategies and complex problems. If you had asked me, the results would have been much better.”

“If it was safe to ask you. If you could have seen past me having magic. If you could be disloyal to Uther.” Even now, the name tasted ashy in Merlin’s mouth.

“All those things are true,” Arthur agreed, “and yet what I said is a fact. The results would have been much better. Especially after you got too personally involved to think very well, and backed yourself into what sounds like a mountain of lies.”

Merlin winced. “I think we should start looking about for that cave. Or some entrance into a secret place, anyway. This land is sacred.”

“I still can’t tell,” Arthur replied absently, revealing that he had some memories of his own. “And now I know why you can.” He turned to Merlin, and stopped him, a hand on his chest. “There are two promises I need from you before we see the Disir.”

“Go ahead.”

“First, you will promise me that if there are decisions you must make in future, you will tell me what they are – the whole of the problem – and we will make them together.”

“I – and will you make the same promise?”

Arthur thought. “I’ll have a lot more decisions than you’ll ever want to hear. But I will promise that if there are any that involve you, or our life together, I will do the same for you.”

Merlin couldn’t seem to help beaming. “Well, then, I promise too. If they involve you or our life together.” And the last three words were clearly what had made him so happy.

“The other promise you need to make, Merlin, is that you will never, ever, lie to me again, by omission or by words.”

Merlin was silent a long time. He did not like promising he wouldn’t lie; it felt too natural to what he must do. But Arthur was right. If Merlin had faith in Arthur, he had to trust his abilities, and his reactions.

He couldn’t even demand the same back. Arthur was naturally honest. If he ever chose to lie, it would be for good reasons and in full understanding of the consequences. Which was not at all how Merlin lied.

“I promise, Arthur. I guess if we’d had this rule last time, we wouldn’t have failed.”

“I know it.”

Arthur looked sober, and not at all romantic. Then why did Merlin’s heart feel somehow too big for him, as Arthur simply stood there, not looking like a Prince at all in his hoodie and jeans, and yet looking like Arthur, who was to have been the greatest king Albion had ever known? Keeping secrets from him once he had grown into himself had been an unquestionable mistake.

Then Arthur’s face softened. “All right, let’s look for that entrance.”

It was easy to find, singing with magic, resonant with earth. It was by running water, of course, and Merlin wondered if the brook they found were always there, or had been allowed to appear as a guide. Wild animals watched them go: badgers and squirrels and even a large white stag. Merlin had not read in the local paper anything about deer in the park; after all, it was only the size of a city block, and they had been walking half an hour. The stag paced along with them, through the brook. When Merlin slipped and almost fell on the slippery stones, he put his arm over its withers without thought. It allowed him to lean until they reached the other side, and then sped up a little, so that they trailed behind him into a cleft in the side of a hill – and there were no such hills in town either, Merlin thought.

Inside, it was cool, but not quite as damp as the Albion air this evening. Merlin made several of his lights and set them floating around them. The stag disappeared, not as if it were afraid of the lights but as if he’d done what he was supposed to and was now off to be a deer again.

And, farther inside the hill, there were three women on three thrones, waiting.

 

Arthur used his left arm to pull Merlin back, making himself the first target. This gesture was as much part of the Arthur Merlin had always known, stepping in front of whomever ally he was with, as his golden hair and his planning. Merlin, who knew full well he was safer and more powerful than Arthur when it came to meeting magical barriers, still found it endearing, and unendurably sexy. But he would tell Arthur that when there was time.

“Greetings, Goddesses,” Arthur said politely. Of course, he would have done research on what the Disir were. In this life even more than the last one he had a value for reading and listening and knowing everything. Perhaps that too was a part of Ygraine’s gift to him.

“Greetings, Arthur Pendragon,” they responded in chorus, and then the one who looked older than the Earth spoke alone. “Have you come to be judged? For you would not help the world last time, and for that your fate was death, and obscurity.”

“I do not seek fame,” Arthur replied, speaking in the more formal language he’d been taught. “I do seek to heal the Earth. Last time, I was destined to die instead, and so your Earth, magic and all, faded. I do not think that destiny served any of us very well.”

“That has nothing to do with us,” the youngest disir said. She had flowing dark hair and Merlin thought looked vaguely familiar. “We tell your fate, but we do not cause it.”

“You kept Mordred alive!” Merlin interrupted. “You knew Mordred was destined to kill him. Now you talk like you’ve got no agency at all.”

Arthur’s arm against his chest, keeping him from moving forward, shifted, and Merlin felt Arthur’s hand tug at him warningly.

The disir’s faces went blank. They otherwise ignored him.

“Then, Arthur Pendragon, not yet a King,” the middle disir said -- there were still faint blond traces in her greyed hair, and Merlin had a good guess who these goddesses were channeling, or perhaps the reverse – “this time, will you bow in fealty to us, and declare magic free and welcome in your realm, and the Great Goddess above all Gods?”

Arthur opened his mouth, and this time Merlin nudged him, hard enough to hurt. The one it hurt was Merlin, though; he turned to look, and Arthur was wearing his shining armour, well-worn but every dent removed and the whole polished as if Merlin had been toiling over it (or magicking it, if Arthur were asleep) just the night before.

Arthur glanced at Merlin as he yelped, and then returned his gaze to the oldest Disir, the one who bore traces of Nimueh around her. “Is that all you are demanding?” he asked levelly. Merlin groaned again, not from pain. This was Arthur’s “go to hell and stay there” voice. Probably about the fealty, this time.

“That is all. And, of course, your faith must be demonstrated, by participating in her great times; spring, summer, fall, winter, as is appropriate.”

“In the winter, the king bleeds for his land to thrive.”

“And that will be you. But for now, enough to swear.”

Merlin tugged futilely at Arthur’s arm, but he ignored it. “Then, goddesses, I must consult with my own sorcerer. You do understand Merlin would be part of this, or I could not do it?”

“Of course,” the middle one said, almost amused. “You are parts of the same whole, and we who see fate would never question that. Merlin will have his own labour, to make up for his mistakes.”

Merlin stopped abruptly and stared at them. Arthur’s hard arm went tightly about Merlin’s waist, and his right hand went for the sword which wasn’t there. He took a deep breath.

“Goddesses, I must decide on my own actions based on Merlin’s as well. I will not have harm done to him while I survive. What are your demands for him?”

I can damn well speak for myself, Merlin thought, but wisely didn’t say.

“To return magic to the land any way he can, or that you call upon him to do. Merlin is earth magic, and so to be bound to you as you are to the land will be quite sufficient. When the time comes for you to renew the land, he must obey you.”

Merlin muttered “fat chance,” under his breath, but Arthur nodded thoughtfully.

“Have you plans to require me to kill my father to save the land?” he asked neutrally. “He is the king.”

“Such sacrifices are made willingly,” the oldest said, a mite disdainfully. “His blood would be of no value to us. You are the one destined to bring magic back, to live in harmony with human powers.”

Merlin opened his mouth to tell her where to go, if what he thought she was saying was going to happen, but Arthur put a hand over his mouth. “We must retire then, my sorcerer and I, to discuss your will,” he said, a mite hastily as Merlin wiggled. He dragged Merlin back through the cave and back into the sacred grove, with its smell of evergreen and holly.

“You’re NOT to kill yourself!” Merlin said. “Or promise to do so – you know they’d make sure you did. Arthur –“

“Shut up, Merlin. It’s a very old tradition, and you know that. The Fisher King you remember was a mere distortion of the King whose blood enriches the land. Of course I would be willing to do that when necessary, in exchange for peace and prosperity. What King wouldn’t?”

“Any other king I’ve ever met,” Merlin responded furiously. “Damn it Arthur, we can’t lose you...”

Arthur sat on a handy fallen tree trunk and pulled off his gauntlets, looking at them curiously. “I’m not sure when this happened, but they all feel so familiar. Merlin, remember you promised to talk to me about things like this?”

“Yes, but –“

“You’re reacting exactly the wrong way, love. You mustn’t think of the Disir as enemies; think of them as targets. In this case, where are they vulnerable? What can I commit myself to which will satisfy them and give me most freedom to manoeuvre? What else am I bound to protect which is competing?”

Merlin began to see why he should have told Arthur about his magic – and his problems – so long ago. Arthur simply thought more strategically than most people.

“So... first is the problem of my other duties. I succeed my father as head of the church, as well as ruler of the realm. And the church does not recognize the goddesses. In fact, I think my mother would say that the church is anti-goddess.”

“I know what my mum would say,” Merlin said crossly. “The Church is what destroyed the Old Religion, which was a women’s religion, and replaced it with a man’s religion, which is the new one. The new one does its best to denigrate the value of women and their goddesses of birth, marriage, and dying.”

Arthur thought about this. “Okay,” he said finally. “So I have my choice of serving my mother or my father. I need to propose a compromise if the realm is to thrive. They’re missing that point, but they would, of course, being committed to the Mother.”

“They want you to break down the new church, take up with the old, and die when it suits them. I don’t see much of a compromise available.”

“Shut up, Merlin. There is. The gods and goddesses of myth are always unreasonable, but judging from how the world works, they’re bound by natural forces. What happened when New Zealand and Australia experimented with limiting populations the settlers themselves brought in?”

“Disaster,” Merlin replied promptly.

“Exactly. I think I can talk them through that. As to bleeding – well, I’m willing to be a full sacrifice, but I’d prefer not. In the old religion, was there much human sacrifice?”

“Except for the king, of course not. There are all sorts of rumours about the Druids, but no one has really settled if the skeletons which had been killed in communal rites were sacrifices, or just suffering the death penalty so common in uncivilized times.”

“Your prejudices are showing, but true. So perhaps the King himself did not have to die, and the stories make it sound worse than it was.”

“Or perhaps not. Look, Arthur, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you from dying.”

“That’s what killed me last time,” Arthur said gently, and Merlin was silenced.

 

They sat for a little longer, both silent with their thoughts, until the white stag appeared again, and led them back.

“Welcome again,” the eldest Disir said. “Have you considered, Arthur Pendragon?”

“I have, Lady, perhaps more than you. The Old Religion served women well, and destroying it was a wrong the New did. But now the New itself is established in the land, is part of the customs and traditions my folk honor. When holly and mistletoe is hung in winter, and eggs celebrated in spring, does it matter to what God or Goddess they think they are paying homage, when what they are doing is honouring creation and that which lives when all else appears dead? 

“I think to destroy a Father and bring the Mother back would cause disaster beyond all imagining, and war which makes the one in my former lifetime play by comparison.“

“Are you saying no?”

“I am saying, Goddesses, that I will pledge to return the Old to the level of the New, and marry them in custom and practices; I will give the women back their own goddesses to worship as they please, and allow the men to practice as they please; and I will emphasize that what gives us birth and takes us in when we die is the Earth, and with my body and spirit hold that sacred. The gods are, after all, many faces of the same Creation, conjectured by humans to understand the universe and the magic which moves it, because we are finite and cannot see the Whole.”

The goddesses consulted with each other. “And you do this in the spirit of acknowledging that the goddesses are as important to the earth as the gods? And that one and many can be the same?”

Arthur didn’t blink. “That’s what I said.”

“And what do you give to show that faith?”

“My other half.” He put his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Here is Emrys, destined to unite the commons of Earth and magic once again.”

Merlin bit his lip to keep from shouting at Arthur, “Who do you think you’re giving away!” 

“And?”

“Merlin and I are destined to do this together. I will put him in charge of magic and all things magical, including the return of the Goddess. It won’t be much of a return, frankly, since I’m getting a sense you’ve always been here. If we work on bringing magic back, and celebrating those who practice it, should do it. And I will work – my life as King – to take some of the power away from the men’s church, which certainly doesn’t deserve to be our only established religion at any rate. We’re a few hundred years behind our colonies in that regard. And to set up systems which enable magic to flourish freely in ways which will not endanger those without magic. That part’s going to require... diplomacy, so it will be a full time job.”

“Does Emrys agree?”

Merlin turned, and looked Arthur in the eye. The entitled prat was speaking for him – but on the other hand, in this case he was entitled. Because Merlin would serve him until he died.

“For some definition of the term ‘serve,’” Arthur snorted, and Merlin realized he’d said that last aloud. “But we’ll be together, and do this together, right?”

“Try and stop me.”

“No plans to try.” Arthur looked up to the Disir, and said, “Merlin agrees.”

“And your sacrifice?”

Merlin hushed Arthur, knowing where he was going. “The King’s blood nourishes the land, right?”

“Of course, Emrys.”

“But does that mean the king’s death nourishes the land? Equally or more than his life helps it?”

“Not necessarily. Your people have always assumed it was a metonym -- a part for a whole. Humans do not live without their blood.”

“You don’t read it that way?”

“Blood on the land in the spring – it is a good sign. It brings fertility, it increases magic, it shows the King’s willingness to sacrifice for life.”

“So... a pint might do?”

The eldest looked a little confused, perhaps at the term “pint.”

“The amount has never been specified.”

Merlin felt Arthur relax next to him. “Willing” and “I don’t have to do this” were very different.

“Then I can promise that I will make the sacrifice myself, with due attention to the ceremonies of the Old religions and the attendance of the priestesses of the Triple Goddess – or not, as they choose – at Beltane, with the King himself giving of his blood.”

This was accepted, and Arthur spoke again.

“What of our destinies now, oh goddesses?”

The Disir declared, again in unison, “You are the one whose destiny and fate it is to re-unite magic and humanity, in your realm and elsewhere.”

Arthur bowed, a formal bow obviously taught to him long ago, and the youngest raised her hand.

“Wait. We can tell you one thing more, and you need to know it to succeed.”

Blast. Merlin thought they’d resolved everything and could go shag now.

“Not only you and Emrys have been called to this time and place by destiny. The building across the park sits on the ruins of Camelot, those ruins not lying beneath our Grove, and those ruins have been a lodestone to the coming of all those destined to play a part in disaster or rebirth.”

Shit.

“Some of those living and working above Camelot have ill will toward nature and the King, and seek magic for the personal power it brings. They have what is left of magic in thrall.” And Merlin could make a good guess which of those it might be.

“You will have to confront them in or above Camelot’s ruins, to use whatever power the dream of Camelot has left. They must be stopped there, or they may never be stopped. This is what your magic is for, Emrys, and your only hope is to bring the weaponry of magic against them.”

“Who are they?”

“You must decide that yourself. We cannot say.” The youngest Disir paused for a moment, then said, “Choose wrongly, and you will strengthen enemies and lose allies.”

“Not even a hint?”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur bowed one more time, and said, “We thank you, goddesses.” He caught Merlin’s wrist and led him out of there, Merlin’s head still turned back to try to wheedle some more information from the youngest Disir, who seemed most helpful.

The grove was completely dark when they once more came out into it, and the fog had coalesced into light rain. Arthur sighed, and continued to lead a stumbling Merlin through the park to where he’d left his car.

“Arthur, your armour –“

Arthur looked down to where his armour remained, every piece. “Well, maybe I’ll be needing this.”

“It’s going to be hell to drive your car in. And we need to get it off before it rusts.”

“When we get to my place, you can take it off me. Or do you not remember how to do that?”

“Try me.”

 

It took rather more time than either wanted before they made it home – specifically, back to Arthur’s place, where the guards he’d given the slip berated them for the short time it took the couple to walk across the living room kissing, disappear into Arthur’s private bedroom, and shoot the bolt on the door.

The removal of the armour took a little longer than it had those many years ago, because Merlin felt Arthur’s body the way he had so often longed to after tournaments. This had the sense of victory and exhaustion which was common to Arthur’s tournaments. Merlin was so turned on his hands were shaking. By the last piece, Arthur was reciprocating by removing pieces of Merlin’s clothing, which slowed them down even more.

_**Somewhat Later** _

Trying to give me a handjob while I’m driving and you’re wearing gauntlets is probably not the greatest idea you ever had, Arthur  
  
We should have taken it off before we went home.  
  
In the Park? With all those people?  
Nobody questions the King.  
You must have been with the Disir too long. Everyone questions the King now, remember? ... Well, not Uther, but you. They’d take pictures.  
Come to think of it, I don't have any revealing pix of you... yet..  



	10. The Do-Over

I found a crumb on Table 8. Your cleaning magic is weakening.  
  
Clotpole, it's the pattern of the tablecloths. They're clean.  
What idiot thought it would be a good idea to buy crumb-patterned tablecloths anyway?  
They're not crumb patterns. They're itsy bitsy little biscuits. You need glasses.  
  
Wash the tablecloths. Then we wouldn't have to worry about the patterns, and I wouldn't have to squint. Why do you resist doing the night laundry anyway?  
  
It's not our job, DM. But this one time we will.

 

How did all the tablecloths end up with rainbow-coloured stripes after washing?!  
  
No idea. But you won't have to squint to see them. Alice dropped by for a tea, and she said they were pretty.  
  
You don't fool me, you lazy arse.   
  
And you haven't started on the greens for Yule, either. Solstice has a specific deadline, you know. Are you going to get the lights up, even?  
  
I've been distracted. There's a mothers' meeting here with squalling babes. Eight babies, six mothers. Couldn't you come down and do the lights?  
  
I'll go buy the greens.  
  
Lots of greens. Finna says it isn't Yule without them. No mistletoe, though. Mistletoe berries are poisonous, and the plant's a parasite.  
  
I'm avoiding saying the obvious.

Guess who I ran into when I got the greens.  
  
Considering your driving, it could be anyone. Did you know babies honk like dogs? Just wherever and whenever they want to?  
  
Honk?  
  
Chunder, if you prefer. Spew. Upchuck.  
  
Disgusting.   
  
The whole staff is happy I clean by magic now.  
  
I'm sure. Merlin, I ran into Morgana at the greens store.  
  
And?  
  
She apparently has prophetic dreams.  
  
Sorry if I forgot to tell you.  
  
We'll talk about that later. But she dreamed about our confrontation, and says the Goddess ...what? cult? faction? ... wants to help.  
  
Whatever. Great. Now two of the moms are shouting obscenities at each other about breastfeeding. Gotta go separate them...  
  
She asked what our strategy was. Do we have a strategy?  
  
Arthur, I'm changing a diaper. I've discovered there are some things no amount of magic can clean.  
  
Morgana wants to meet with us tonight and plan strategy.  
  
You're the planner. I like to play by ear. And just one comment about having noticed that and you will be sleeping alone. Forever. At any rate, I have babies. You meet with her. Get her to help put the greens and lights up while you plan.  
  
That's actually not a bad idea. Anyway, Morgana thinks there should be an emergency meeting about magic to attract them.  
  
Babies, Arthur. Screaming babies. Screaming moms. Annoyed customers who are not screaming babies or moms, but are also beginning to shout. You plan. I'll follow. It always works out like that anyway.

 

Arthur did not like it that Merlin was a) staying at his own place the night before the meeting, and b) was planning to walk to the college from there.

“For fuck’s sake, Arthur, I walk past it every morning,” Merlin protested, as Arthur emphatically locked the passenger door just as Merlin lifted the latch to leave. “And locking me in is on the wrong side of sexual harassment, I think you should know. Are you like this often? Because it’s against the university’s policies on –“

“Damn it, I am not sexually harassing you, Merlin,” Arthur growled, locking the door again as Merlin pushed the “unlock” button. “This has nothing whatever to do with – you know nothing about fighting, let alone magic battles, and there are some dangerous people on that faculty, you told me yourself.”

“Stop doing that,” Merlin yelled, pulling up the button and watching it close again. “I’m the most dangerous person around – must I remind you that I’ve got more magic than the rest of them put together? And what little they have is more burglar magic – taking things.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“It’s a good guess, or Sigan at least wouldn’t speak of magic so contemptuously. Besides, none of them would even recognize me, and if they did, it wouldn’t occur to them I’m coming to stop them.”

“And once they figure it out?”

“I’m beginning to regret saying you could even be there. I don’t need two mothers.” He was also beginning to regret the button war. Arthur’s reflexes were fast, and Merlin’s index finger hurt from the constant pushing.

“Three. Mine knows about you, and she’s interested now.”

“She’s unlikely to be an enemy. Or even a problem – she wasn’t a factor in the last struggle for Camelot, except maybe by her absence.”

It occurred to Merlin that this overprotectiveness probably was the result of having had a mother – added on to Arthur’s natural instincts. And it wasn’t that he disliked this gentler, more emotionally available side – not that it was demonstrating itself much just now, except as an underlying motive.

Merlin stopped fighting with the lock. “Look, Arthur, I’m just going to feel more comfortable and safer in my own bed, in my own room, and my brain has to be working in the morning, not just magic. It’ll be fine – you’ll meet me on the steps, I’ll be in clean clothes – my own clothes, for a change – and we can walk in together, with your bodyguards trailing behind or whatever.”

He glanced at Lance, standing outside where he’d slid out to look around for threats as was their custom when Arthur parked (also to recover from Arthur’s vertigo-inducing driving, Merlin suspected) and trying not to listen.

“Yes, but I’m not going to be comfortable and safer in my own bed, worrying about you,” Arthur said miserably, and it dawned on Merlin finally that it wasn’t all protectiveness. Arthur had never, in any universe, been able to admit when he was afraid. And here Merlin was, not demonstrating the amount of care his prat needed – however badly Arthur was expressing his own protectiveness.

He sighed deeply. “Okay, fine. Then stay with me tonight.” He hadn’t tidied, but that was the least of his problems. “Rested” was going to be a challenge, with a worried Arthur to distract.

Arthur’s stubborn face dissolved to relief. “Okay, that’ll work.” He leaned closer and said, “But the guards’ll have to stay behind. They would be in a lot of danger if things get violent, and not the kind they’re trained to handle. I don’t want them killed.”

Merlin nodded. “Ya wanna come in, or go fetch clothes?”

“I’ll fetch clothes and a toothbrush and take out and come back.” Getting his own way, though in a revised capacity, had taken all of Arthur’s peremptoriness out of him.

 

The next morning was one of those bright winter days Albion sometimes gave its luckiest citizens: crisp, with no wind, and a sun which gave the illusion it was summer. Merlin and Arthur dressed almost in silence. They had enjoyed the night but fallen asleep earlier, and except for a shared shower with moments of teasing, were focused on what would happen today.

“Cheer up,” Merlin said, as Arthur poured the coffee Merlin had for once made at home. “The meeting can’t go on forever. It’s the shortest day of the year.”

“And my mother will be displeased if I’m not home for Yule tonight,” Arthur said crabbily. “That’s our celebration – Christmas belongs to the nation, and Father does more work on that than many non-holidays, such as his speech and photo ops and dinner with the family. Mum will be annoyed enough she has this meeting, instead of being home ordering everyone about, including me, to get the perfect dinner in the family dining room and the perfect decorations and greens and holly with berries and ... well, let’s just say we’d better be done by dark.” By the end, he was sounding wistful.

“My mum always does Yule too,” Merlin said. “Though it’s probably just a bit less formal – no one to order about but me, and I’d miss it this year anyway, what with Sisters and the holiday schedule. But I better call her tonight. Solstice is still a big deal in her household.”

They kissed, then, a lingering kiss for luck, and looked about them. Arthur’s only guard was Lance this morning – they ostensibly had been going to stay in – and Merlin had put him to sleep, so he was curled up on the living room couch covered with a blanket and a smile on his face.

“Let’s go then,” Arthur said.

Excalibur Park was bustling for this relatively early hour. Groups of young men and women, wearing one of two types of long-sleeved shirts, were clustering near the sidewalk, drinking tea from flasks and chatting animatedly to others in the same shirt. They were clearly members of either a red and gold team or a blue and silver team, depending.

“Oh crap, Quidditch,” Merlin grumbled.

“Muggle Quidditch, Merlin,” Arthur said loftily. “Show some respect. It’s the Oxbridge Occamy Quidditch team and – I have no idea who the other team is.”

“Birmingham Basilisks,” said a passer-by, dressed in mufti and clearly planning not to ride a broomstick all afternoon. “Should be a really good game.”

They paused and glanced over the field.

“We may end up out here,” Arthur pointed out. “There are too many valuable artefacts locked up in the College.”

“Are there? Can they be used?”

“I have no idea. I think even if I had majored in the College, I wouldn’t know. For one thing, they’re all just rumoured to be magic things – I don’t think the faculty can really tell, do you? For another, the “valuable” means they don’t talk about them much.”

The Faculty conference room was as quiet as the park had been busy. As arranged, Morgana and Morgause and Mordred were already there, setting out the essential tea things. Morgana was arranging a morning snack of scones and cheese biscuits, clearly acquired from Sisters. Mordred was arranging chairs, to Morgause’s desultory instructions.

“Put the new ones – the very padded ones – all on the far side,” she said as they walked in. “The dangerous ones will think it’s perfectly normal that all of their members will choose that side, and we will sit across from them; give us our back to the window, Mordred, let the sun be in their eyes. Ygraine will have to sit at the end, chair’s position, but remember your job is to ensure she doesn’t get in the line of fire...”

“Line of fire?” Arthur said, his voice dangerous.

“There may be none, of course,” Morgause said wearily. “But I’m trying to plan for contingencies.”

“I’m glad you’re on our side this time,” Merlin said impulsively, and earned the first genuine smile he’d ever gotten from her.

“Well, it will be less exhausting for both of us,” she agreed. “In the meantime – you and Arthur are mere students, of course, so need to be inconspicuous. We’ve set up a bit of a block with the tea things – with luck, they’ll think you’re serving. In fact, if anyone asks, we’ll say it’s all from Sisters, which is true, and you’re serving; a treat for Yule.”

“What’s the reason for the meeting?” Arthur asked.

“An emergency meeting,” Morgause said, “where we’ve learned that the faction which thinks magic can be dangerous are correct. There’s a series of fires occurring across the midlands as we speak – all magically started. We need to discuss our role in both keeping people calm and addressing the problem.”

“Mum’s going to be annoyed she doesn’t know this,” Arthur observed.

“She knows about the fires, just not the source.”

“Actual magical fires?” Merlin blurted.

“We are not,” Morgause said, “completely incompetent.”

“Thanks to Morgana,” Mordred grinned. “She stole this magical firestarter and spent half the night setting them. They won’t go out with technology that isn’t magic.”

Arthur began to look angry. “You set fires... in actual human spaces? Real people? What are you burning?”

“Buildings only,” Morgana said soothingly. “Well, and one wildfire along some uncut lawn of a far-too-wealthy mansion owner. If he keeps soaking his home with water, it should be fine.”

Because Arthur looked extremely unwatered, and about to explode, Merlin stepped on his foot hastily. “You can’t make omelets...”

“Without hiring a firebug,” Mordred said cheerfully. “I think Morgana enjoyed it just a mite too much.”

“That will be the first law I see passed,” Arthur growled. “Magical fires, like hate crimes, are subject to higher penalties.”

“Fine,” Morgana said, rather crabby herself. “You really are some kind of genetic sport, aren’t you? Professor Ygraine is a diplomatic go-getter, your father’s a whole battalion by himself, and you boggle over the most trivial and necessary things.”

Merlin grabbed Arthur by the shoulder, and with some difficulty, spun him around. “Arthur, whether or not you approve, you’re not in charge, remember? Basically, you’re here as a witness more than anything. And it’s too late to get angry, especially since they seem to enjoy poking you.”

Arthur nodded, and took a breath. “Very well. I’ll dispense tea, then, and you put the scones or whatever on plates as they come in.”

Merlin leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.”That’s my big, strong Day Manager.”

Fortunately, Arthur laughed.

They decided to set themselves as unnoticeably as they could behind the catering table with large flasks of espresso, Cafe Americano, and hot milk in front of them. Morgana had put out a small table with a tablecloth, and Merlin began placing discreet cakes on small plates and arranging them there. Slowly the other faculty he’d seen before wandered in, and made a beeline for the tea and cakes. Merlin made a point of handing every possibly hostile faculty member one with a sprig of holly on it (there were few without).

No one asked any questions concerning the oddity of a catered tea service at a college meeting. They might start, “What’s the occasion?” and Morgause would reply, “Token apology for meeting off-term.” They all just murmured happily and dived in, looking slightly less surly. Merlin thought he really couldn’t tell the suspects from the rest; they were all behaving like academics: arriving grumbling, seeing attractive free food, and cheering up.

The conversation was general, and as civilized as the faculty ever got, until Ygraine walked in, her short heels clicking on the wood floor, precisely on time. She ignored her son’s offering of tea after raising an eyebrow to see him there at all, and took the chair position, with Gaius on her right (his back to the window) and Valiant on her left (squinting a little from the sun).

“Good morning,” she said. “Since it’s 10, why don’t we get started?” They made the hasty return to seats, shuffling, clicking of chairs, settling, and munching noises of well-fed committees all over the planet, and Ygraine waited precisely 30 seconds before continuing.

“Professor Blessing has notified me of the need to call this meeting, so I’ll let her begin.”

Morgause stood, forcing most of the male faculty to look upward slightly, directly at the sun haloing her head. She deserves to be one of the Triple Goddess, Merlin thought, amused and a little awed at once.

“Professor Pendragon, as most of you have seen from news reports either on the internet or television, there are a series of fires burning across one of Albion’s counties. What has not been reported is that they are magical.”

There was silence, and then an outbreak of talking. Merlin noted that “oh yeah, prove it,” was the tenor of conversations.

“I highly doubt magical,” Sigan said pompously. “I know you live in eternal hope, Professor,” (a nasty jab at both her academic work, and her failure to remarry after that short mistake with Agravaine) “but the realists in this College are aware that magic, if it ever did exist, will not return to this secular, technological Earth.”

Arthur was attentively watching every movement, listening to every word. Merlin, bored as the usual argument concerning if magic had existed, if it could, if it would, drifted out of the conversation and for want of anything better to do, started looking at the walls, bedecked with pictures of faculty; photographs since the mid 1800s, watercolours and oils of at least the deans of college previous to that, always one portrait of the Chair of Counter Magic. Funny how they all looked alike in their robes and hats and stoles... the advocates themselves looked like twins. Identical twins...

Merlin looked more closely.

Suddenly, figuring out who their opponents were became rather easier. As far back as the College itself, someone looking exactly like Sigan had been the Chair of Counter Magic, and Aredian was in all the photos and occasionally appeared as Dean of the College, with that same smirk captured by more or less competent artists. There was a third, sometimes with beard, sometimes without, who recurred, but Merlin couldn’t quite recognize him.

The raised voices were quieting now, so Merlin turned around. Arthur looked as though he wanted to be taking notes, though Merlin knew he’d brought an extra phone hidden out of faculty sight. Morgause had regained control of both her temper and the floor, and was glaring at Muirden, saying, “And how would you know these fires cannot be magic, without being there and watching the firefighters fail, Professor?”

“Well, you heard Professor Sigan,” Muirden replied, sounding a little bit puzzled. “He said he knew it for a fact. And the Professor takes care of suspect magic; him and Professor Aredian. If they find a dangerous artefact, they figure out how to neutralize it.”

Merlin registered the shock on Aredian’s and Sigan’s face. They apparently hadn’t noticed anyone knew. Muirden also seemed to be speaking innocently.

All the faculty with their backs to the sun jumped up at once. So did Aredian, Sigan, and of all people, Geoffrey Monmouth. Well, he was in charge of archives, both artefacts and manuscripts. Probably horrified to hear what was happening on his watch...

No. Monmouth’s was the third face in the portraits.

Merlin moved slowly forward, keeping a close eye on Sigan, who’d always been the most powerful of the many magicians who’d opposed him.

He felt Arthur come to stand by his side. Arthur would not know who the enemies were yet, but he had to have a pretty good idea from what Muirden had said.

The faculty allies, were silent in shock. He needed to seize the moment. Surreptitiously, Merlin wiped his wet palms on his pants and spoke to the meeting table in front of Sigan, not quite able to raise his eyes.

“Professor Sigan, did you really destroy magical artefacts?”

Sigan turned to look at him, much as he would look at a beetle attacking his shoelace. “Who on earth are you? How dare you ask me such a question?”

“My name is Merlin Emrys, and I think you will recognize my last name, at least. I’ve been sent by the Disir to stop the degradation of magic through sabotage and dark arts. You could say my destiny is yours.”

Sigan frowned, then suddenly put his hand in his pocket. “Very well, then, let’s put an end to your destiny and save us all trouble.” He flung something iron-coloured at Merlin, who ducked instinctively. Arthur threw himself in front of him and caught the flying thing, which glowed blue. Arthur’s trajectory brought him into uncomfortable contact with Valiant’s chair, which brought out rude words from both of them, not to each other, but he seemed otherwise unhurt. A flash came from the thing he’d caught and suddenly he was manacled before them.

Merlin waved his hand at the manacles and discovered that they would not come off. He allowed a piece of his magic sense to identify them, while he mostly was watching Sigan, who looked furious. They were cold iron. They would have harmed Merlin’s abilities a lot, but did nothing to Arthur but annoy him.

“I thought that might be your best shot,” Morgause said to Sigan, and pulled out a small file she handed to Morgana. Morgana helped Arthur sit up and quickly began filing the manacles. Merlin noticed she was wearing gloves, and realized she had been when she had arrived. He was grateful Morgause was on their team this time.

Sigan, in the meantime, had put his hands in his pockets again. Merlin decided not to let him use whatever he thought might work. Arthur wasn’t in a position to jump in front of him this time, and anyway, it was just luck Sigan had thrown a controller instead of some item which would kill them.

Merlin concentrated on Sigan’s hands and forced them out of his pockets, clenched, then made them drop the various small items on the table. Mordred, who had moved silently to the suspects’ side, snatched them away and backed off. She too was wearing gloves.

Ygraine was banging for order, but no one paid any attention.

“What are they?” Merlin asked Mordred.

Mordred handed them to Morgause, who sifted through them with a pencil. “This is another magic neutralizer, not made for use on humans. This is a vibration bomb, designed to clear a room and kill anyone not quick enough for the countdown. And this –“ she held up a small, bright blue jewel, glowing at its heart – “Is a treasure indeed. It helps identify and call magic to one.” She took it up in her bare hand and stuck it in her own pocket. “You should have had it made into a ring, Cornelius. It must have been inconvenient, bringing it out and waving it about.”

Cornelius growled. “You can’t use it, you bitch. You haven’t any power at all this time around.”

Morgause laughed. “That’s what you think?” She suddenly began glowing. “Not the power I had in my first life, but power enough, And I’m not alone.”

While this interchange went on, Merlin felt safe enough to look at Aredian. He was obviously furious. He’d never had magic, but it appeared in this life he controlled it.

He had drawn something from his pocket and was rubbing it, muttering words which presumably was a spell. Merlin shook his head, and took it from him and caught it.

It was a small pewter model of a bear, upright and snarling. There was power still in it; the tight, curled power of something magical which had been neglected a long time. Merlin let his magic speak to it, and it growled and began to grow. Merlin hastily dropped it, just in time as it became life size and, judging from the floor’s bowing, equivalently heavy to its original pewter.

But it looked at him, and he pointed toward the door. “Guard it.” The bear nodded and shuffled over to sit, bearlike, in front of the threshold.

Sigan and Aredian began speaking at once.

“That’s theft. You took it from him –“

“It can understand you! How can it understand you?”

Merlin shrugged and answered the second question first. “Magic speaks to magic.”

Professor Nimueh Talios’ eyes were bright with excitement. “You can make it work! How did you make it work? Professor Aredian has been trying for years...”

“Just magic, I suppose. I don’t sense Aredian having any...”

Ygraine spoke for the first time. “Professor Aredian, I think we need to call the police and have you and Dr. Sigan escorted to the station to discuss why it is that you have presumed – or proven – magical artefacts on your persons. Morgana, if you would be so kind as to call –“

“No,”Morgause said, sharp but apologetic, “I can’t spare her right now. In case of attack.”

“Very well,” Ygraine said. “Arthur, dear?”

He was standing very near her, glaring at Sigan, but glanced down and nodded. “Only someone has to protect Merlin –“

“I’ll do it,” Nimueh said abruptly, and quickly came over to him. “If he’s talking to the Disir, I don’t want to fight him.” Arthur nodded reluctantly, and pulled out his mobile phone. He sighed, as if it were inevitable, signalled “no bars” to Merlin, and walked out, the bear obligingly stepping aside for him and then moving back on guard.

Nimueh smiled at Merlin encouragingly.

Another person I killed, Merlin thought guiltily. But Sigan was stalking toward the door, bear or no bear.

“I don’t have to listen to this nonsense,” he shouted. “Everyone knows there is no magic in the world. It’s gone, and you should thank God for that every day.”

“No,” Nimueh said thoughtfully, her eyes unfocused. “It’s not gone – it’s in this room with us. Almost all the world’s magic. How... very odd.”

Merlin whispered to her, “Is that how magic I am?”

She shook her head. “Maybe half is yours, but the other half – is struggling to get out. Feel it.”

Merlin, who had been too terrified by his own audacity to feel for any magic but the obvious in the artefacts, took deep breaths to calm and then sent it out to search. Nimueh was right. There was an enormous sense of magic, and it felt oddly anguished, as if it were bound, and by something unpleasant, even painful. He’d never thought of magic having emotions before; his own magic mirrored his mood, but that was different.

Sigan was turning a bit pale. Perhaps he was beginning to realize that he was, indeed, in danger of being arrested for theft; what a comedown. He began fidgeting with his rings and then raised his hand to Merlin.

“Rhowch yr hyn sydd gennyf fi!” he shouted. It was as if a noose around Merlin’s waist suddenly tightened. At first it wasn’t painful, but then it felt as if someone were flaying him alive, and he screamed. Sigan’s smile then was something he would never forget. He said the phrase again, quietly and silkily, and Merlin doubled over from pain.

There was a commotion in the room. Morgana had her arm out, pointed at Sigan, shouting words to silence him; Mordred, quieter, was making gestures which would presumably end with Sigan bound and tied up; the older magic users, Morgause and Nimueh, were each concentrated and quiet, and Merlin had no doubt deadlier than the others. He had never seen so much magic practised all at once anywhere, and even through his pain he couldn’t help but notice that those not involved in defence were looking awed, astonished, excited and pleased, furious, or overjoyed depending on the faculty member.

But the pain was not lessening, and the building itself was beginning to rumble. There was a craaack, and one of the (fortunately decorative) timbers fell from the ceiling and landed across the room from the conference table. Merlin heard the vibrating rumble of another being loosened from its place.

“The artefacts!” Ygraine said, sounding distressed. “If magic interacts with magic, the artefacts may... who knows what. We need to stop this! Dr. Sigan, please surrender, for all our sakes.”

“I don’t think so,” Sigan grunted, concentrating on tearing Merlin in two, or so it felt.

Ygraine did not suggest that the others stop. It was clear that wouldn’t improve the problem at all.

Merlin thought of Arthur, not yet back from wherever he was. But it wasn’t just himself in danger, and of course Arthur would be most worried about Ygraine. He forced himself to concentrate on other than the pain, and then the whole group was standing in the park. It felt much safer than the building.

Merlin had forgotten the Quidditch players. They were still gathered respectfully around the edges of the playing field, observers drinking hot tea and coffee and the participants doing warm up exercises. They were all startled to suddenly have a group appear from nowhere, even more so when the group adjusted to their new location by looking around in shock, then returning their attention to each other. Nimueh slapped Merlin’s shoulder in what he hoped was approval. Sigan blanched, then narrowed his eyes and focused even more on trying to kill Merlin by taking his magic.

The Magical Theory building was crumbling, brick by brick. All Merlin wanted to do was run back to it and scream for Arthur, wherever he was, to come out. But he had the safety of quite a few people now his specific responsibility, and anyway, Sigan would have followed him and continued whatever he was doing, holding up a jewel while Aredian joined him in chanting words at it.

It was Morgause who finally gave him a clue, coming closer and continuing to aim whatever magic she had at the two faculty traitors.

“He’s trying to take your magic,” she said into Merlin’s ear. "That’s his magical gift; not to make his own, but to capture others’. That must be how he neutralized the artefacts. All that magic we could have learned so much from – gone from the world. Keep fighting, Emrys. You’re the last powerful sorcerer left.”

Merlin thought Morgause obviously wasn’t experiencing the same pain he was, but felt better when she joined hands with Nimueh and held the other out to Morgana, who ran to take it. The three of them formed a line between Merlin and Sigan, and suddenly he could breathe again, though there was still some pain as Sigan raised his jewel higher and he and Aredian began shouting the words more emphatically. “Rhowch ni i ni beth yw ni!”

Dumb. Being loud doesn’t improve magic. But there they were, with the last magical artefacts available, and here he was, struggling just to stay even. If they had planned this better, they could have found artefacts to protect themselves.

Ygraine was shouting for Sigan and Aredian to lay down their magic tools in the name of the college. Her bodyguard, who had not been in the conference room so not transported, appeared at the front door of the college. He seemed to have been struck by falling debris, because another man, with familiar blond hair, was helping him with an arm around his waist while the guard held on for dear life to his shoulder. Of course that was what had kept Arthur. He’d probably run back to the room to see if people were safe.

That thought eased the pressure from Sigan just a little, as a squirmy, warm feeling settled in its place. Somehow, now Arthur was there, he felt that everything was going to be all right.

Arthur pushed his way through the throng of Oxbridge students, making his way not to Merlin but to his mother, who took charge of her guard while Arthur said a few words, presumably about his errand of calling the police. Ygraine caught his arm and spoke to him urgently; Mordred also jogged over there and contributed some words, while waving his arms expressively.

The distraction almost cost Merlin his life, or his magic; he couldn’t say which would be worse. They had forgotten Monmouth, who was remarkably close behind him now, a large stone raised. Merlin flung his arm out and pulled the stone free from Monmouth's hand, then grabbed for Monmouth, who hastily pulled free and ran further into the park.

“Arthur, get him!” he shouted, and threw the stone at Sigan as hard as he could. It struck, for a miracle, but on Sigan’s arm, which seemed to put him a little off his aim but didn’t damage him much.

Arthur shouted back, “You’re the one in danger. We can dig him out of the mud afterward.”

“We need something magical if at all possible. Aredian and Sigan had things on them. Maybe Monmouth does too.”

Arthur turned then, and looked around to see where Monmouth was going. His eyes fell on the Excalibur monument, the crystals in its granite shining in a stray sun ray.

“That’s magical, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but not exactly portable.”

Aredian was beginning to look at Arthur and dig in his pockets. Probably for another weapon. They were really unbalanced, despite having the might of the Goddess – and the Disir – on their side. In some ways, it was like Camelot all over again, where only the bad guys were armed with magic. Even Merlin was having a problem this time, because he didn’t know what he was fighting, just that it was painful.

Arthur had reached the plinth and was nimbly climbing up. From there, he continued climbing to stand a little gingerly on the stone. He put his hand on the stone handle of Excalibur.

The world began to shift around them. All the students in the park had got their phones out and were taking pictures and video of the embattled faculty, but now they moved their cameras over to Arthur, even while asking questions of each other.

As Arthur grasped the stone hilt, a beam of stray morning sunlight caught his hair, and there he was, looking more than ever like a hero from fiction, rather than the day manager of Sisters, clasping it tightly.

Merlin stopped all pretence of fighting Sigan, holding his breath. Sigan, too, had turned to watch, sneering a little to show that he didn’t think Arthur’s attempt would do any good – perhaps with or without the sword.

But in that shaft of light, Arthur of Camelot put both hands on the sword, and it came up easily. The stone crumbled. But as Merlin had hoped, by the time Arthur had the blade freed from stone it been sunken into, it was its original self again; silver and gold and flashing in the light.

The sword looked nothing like the ones Merlin had polished before every tournament and every expedition. Those had been the best of their kind available, but not of the quality of this one; hammered steel, not... whatever this had been; the new archeologists wouldn’t be able to determine the method of its making unless they were introduced to dragons. But it was pure steel, as good as the old Damascus sort, but without the Damascene waves. It had been forged by a sorcerer working with a dragon to make a sword only one king should bear. And here it was, freed from its stone and ready to save the Earth.

Arthur held it aloft, and all the observers (those not still recording) began to cheer.

He held it in one hand while nimbly jumping down from the stone and the plinth. Merlin had a passing thought that it was fortunate that this time the sword had not also been stuck through an anvil. He wasn’t sure where that idea came from.

Sigan began running toward the sword, with Aredian an instant behind. Sigan held his hand out – the one with the most rings – and shouted  
_Dewch i mi, Dewch i mi, rwy'n gorchymyn i chi!_ Merlin thought he was probably shouting at the sword, not the ring, to come to him.

But Excalibur, in this life, had never been lifted by any hand but Arthur’s.

It flashed with its own inward fire as Arthur stopped, sword still upraised. Sigan prudently paused out of swinging distance.

“Give me the sword, my Prince!” he shouted. “You were just an undergraduate, and didn’t even understand some of the theory!”

Arthur looked far more pissed than hesitant. “And you were a domineering, arrogant, asswipe of a faculty member whose only entry in the history books will be that you were also a thief.”

Aredian was circling around. Merlin, to his horror, saw Monmouth slipping out of the wooded area behind the plinth, a large branch in his hands.

“Arthur, behind you!” he yelled.

Arthur spun, then leaped toward Aredian and neatly knocked him out, the hilt slamming to his temple. He glanced at Monmouth contemptuously, then moved in on Sigan.

“You’re also a coward, I note,” he said, in his most pratly voice. “A coward and a thief? Not welcome here in Albion.”

“You hated magic,” Sigan snarled. “Even your best friend was afraid to share it with you. And you’re not the noble king you present yourself to be – your friend was a servant. Hardly suitable.”

The look on Arthur’s face was one Merlin had never seen before. He was glad of that. They were probably just both trashtalking to cause the other to make a mistake, but this was apparently beyond tolerance.

“Give the world back her magic!” he said, his eyes narrowed, moving slowly toward Sigan. “I made an oath to the Disir that I would erase you and your kind; anyone who threatens the balance again.”

He heard sucked in breath from the Goddess faction behind him. They had not known that, he supposed. He knew they must be smiling. He crept forward, nearer Sigan, waiting for an opportunity to help without distracting Arthur.

And felt a hard arm crook itself around his neck.

“Give us the sword, Arthur,” Aredian snarled. “We’ll trade you for this servant.”

Arthur looked contemptuous. “You’re stuck in the past, Aredian. He’s no servant in this era.”

“You call pouring tea and smiling, offering scones not servitude? The difference is that you have become the servant you are best qualified to be, and we, the masters of the College, have become the masters we were destined to become. Now, do I kill the boy, or do you want to trade?”

Aredian has no magic of his own, Merlin thought dimly. He has no idea what I can do.

Then he realized: Arthur wasn’t sure. Arthur was not prepared for a hostage situation. Though he should have been, the prat. Things like that always happened.

Merlin, even though his innards still felt as if they had been chopped in two, but a hand on Aredian’s arm and said firmly, _Gadewch i lawr, ewch i gysgu. Gadewch i lawr, ewch i gysgu_. Aredian dropped like the spell Merlin threw at Monmouth without looking, bringing him to his knees and then, slowly toppling over, his belly. Merlin repeated the words once more and, as ordered, Geoffrey fell down and went to sleep.

This left Sigan.

The guard was trying to join the group, unsnapping his holster as he came. Merlin had a bad feeling, confirmed as Sigan merely glanced contemptuously at him, and the guard cried out and fell into a little heap.

“That’s my mother’s bodyguard!” Arthur said between his teeth.

“Not any more,” Sigan said cheerfully. “And now you.”

He swept his arm and hand meaningfully, but Merlin was prepared, and shouted “ _Schiel_!” causing Sigan’s magical attack to fail. Arthur just stood there, looking grim. Sigan looked startled.

“How did you do that?” he asked Arthur, and Merlin realized he couldn’t tell the source of anything.

“Magic,” Arthur said smugly, refusing to elaborate. Merlin considered the best way to bring Sigan down while not damaging whatever magic he was hoarding.

The consideration almost ruined them. Sigan produced his own sword, shinier and longer than Arthur’s, and while they were still startled, brought it down to slice Arthur from top to bottom. Only Arthur’s instincts deflected the attack, swinging down to catch the blade and push it away.

“What the _hell_ are you carrying?” Sigan demanded, swinging at Arthur fruitlessly. “I’m armed with a _magic_ sword, and you have one pulled out of the marsh. A _stone_ sword.”

“Never underestimate swords from bodies of water, Sigan,” Arthur said a little breathlessly, parrying Sigan’s next three attacks. “You really need to get your eyes checked – it isn’t stone any longer.”

“Wishful thinking.” Sigan, grinning, using the sword like a sabre, pointed it directly at Arthur’s heart and leaned in. Without any other reaction, Arthur disarmed him with a little twist of his wrist which caused Sigan to gasp and freeze, watching his sword fly upward. Arthur paused then, and on its surrender to gravity and plunge downward, caught it out of the air.

Sigan looked at him in horror, as the sword began to crumble as if it were chalk. “But... but it’s a _magic_ sword,” he said, protesting.

Arthur stood, shocked, dropping the crumbling sword in disgust. As the “magic sword” had touched his hand and began to crumble, so did Sigan, who shrieked with panic, and managed a word or two from some dead language. Even if it might have worked, it was too late. Sigan’s body turned to pebbles, and the pebbles to white dust, and the dust fell to the ground where he had stood in little hillocks, blowing apart just a bit at a time.

Arthur pulled his own blade back and looked at it suspiciously. Merlin wanted to reassure him, but didn’t quite know how.

The moment passed, at any rate, and Arthur remained intact. He used his handkerchief, and wiped the sword automatically. “What shall I do with this now?” he asked, sounding a bit shocked.

“Put it down, of course,” Merlin said. He let his magic roam until he found Monmouth's car, noted for its antique leather seats. He found it ridiculously easy to make a scabbard of leather from it, and attached it to the leather belt on Arthur's waist. Using real materials guaranteed permanency, and he didn't want the scabbard disappearing some day. “Put it down in that, so it’s handy.”

“Yes, handy,” Arthur said shakily. “It’s evidence... the police will want it.” He sheathed it.

“Ridiculous,” Merlin said, and abandoned his shyness of all the cameras to come wrap himself around Arthur. “It’s not the weapon that killed him. It’ll have been recorded a thousand times over that he was trying to kill you with a magic sword, and you defended yourself. And that after you disarmed him, he disappeared.”

“But what will my father say?”

“I’ll deal with him, love,” Ygraine said, and put an arm around Arthur from the other side. “Your Merlin’s right; it was self defence, and may I say I’m proud of you.”

Merlin was feeling a little disappointed. He felt no rush of magic returning to the air about them. Perhaps it was still stuck in the gemstones, or perhaps... it was unthinkable that they might have failed.

But Arthur was trembling a little, and trying not to, and his arms were clinging while his head had dropped to his mother’s shoulder, and really, magic was not as important as Arthur.

Which is what started our problem in the first place, Merlin chided himself. But he couldn’t find it in himself to change his priorities.

Behind them, that which was magical in Cornelius Sigan turned into a wire of light and sank into the crystal he wore about his neck. And then all the crystals began to glow, until they lit up the entire park, far more than the blue lights coming closer.

Merlin used his magic to hastily round them all up, and bury them in the glade by the Disir. They'd come back as soon as they could to do what they needed. But best the police assumed that the wild tale of glowing gems was crowd hallucination or something. He doubted being impounded by the police and then perhaps presented to the Crown was in the Disir's best interest, and it certainly would complicate things for Arthur and himself. 

 

Do we still have to go to that damn party?  
  
Gotta show up, Merlin. I'm the Day Manager. And you're as near to a Manager the night staff have.  
  
Which is to say, not at all, since we voted to be a cooperative. But that's not the point, Hero. You look about as sick as I've ever seen you. Even though the DI was being really gentle and polite. Nice to be King.  
  
I wouldn't know. I'm not yet. Never killed anyone before. It would make you sick.  
  
Yeah. I remember. We could sneak upstairs for an hour or so and then sneak down and pretend we've been there all along.  
  
Sounds good. After all, everyone will want to tell me how nice the greens look. And the lights. And the mistletoe.  
  
There's no mistletoe, Arthur, remember? Because it's poisonous and parasitic.  
  
Oh yes, that slipped my mind.  
  
Okay. Shit looks like 3 coppers are headed my way. Guess it's my turn.  
  
Merlin, DO NOT say a word until I get there. I MEAN it. Say you're thirsty and need water before you talk. Are you by the emergency medics?  
  
Yes. And you're all shiny and waving your arms. Must be fun to wear armor in the rain, huh?  
  
Stop texting. It looks suspicious.


	11. Happy Endings All Round

Hours later, after the police had come and gone, and the ambulances, and the press after all those phones taking pictures of the battle and the participants had sent them on, and a large car from the palace with King Uther inside, who had ordered it as soon as he had seen pictures of his weary queen and blood-covered son, Merlin and Arthur were spread on the grass some distance from the plinth and, yes, the entire Muggle Quidditch field, all of which had been marked out as a crime scene and was currently being examined microscopically by a team of experts who had never been trained in magic investigation and were therefore not quite sure what they should be looking for, and what to do if they happened to find anything.

“I think I’m worn out,” Merlin confessed.

“How do you feel other than that? Pain?” Arthur reached over and took his hand, ignoring the press remaining, and the flashes from their cameras which followed. They’d been pushed far back, with a line of tape marking how far they could go, and he was exhausted.

“I still hurt around my belly, which apparently is where my magic is situated, but it’s not so bad as to feel I need a hospital run.”

“If they knew how to correct magical damage, you’d be there so fast -- but as it is, I have to take your word for it. What do you need now?”

Merlin was silent, thinking. “You,” he said finally.

This woke Arthur up a little. “Me?”

It feels like the end of the last time, and I just need to stay close and convince myself you’re not dying.”

“Is there... erm... anything I can do while you’re close to make that more convincing?” Arthur raised himself on one arm and looked meaningfully at Merlin.

“That might help.” Merlin was struggling with a smile.

“You are constantly obscure, Emrys. ‘That’ could refer to anything I said, though my best guess would be it’s referring to ‘anything.’ With interpretation of a specific –“

“Oh my gods. You’re even more dull when you get pedantic. I wouldn’t have thought it possible.” He took a handful of grass and threw it (poorly) into Arthur’s face.

Arthur spit out the grass blades. “I gather this part of the woods doesn’t constitute sacred ground?”

Merlin reached for another handful, and Arthur grabbed his wrist, holding it tightly. “I think I should get you home?”

“Don’t they need us –“

“I’ll talk to my father,” Arthur said nobly. “He’ll arrange things.”

Someone coughed, and they looked up to see a slightly dishevelled Morgana, holding hands with an absolutely perfect Morgause.

“The Time of the Fathers is over,” Morgana pronounced. “The Time of the Mothers has returned.”

“I don’t think so,” Arthur replied, climbing to his feet and brushing grass off his trousers. “I mean, why not have a Time of the Parents, and quit fighting?”

“That’s up to you,” Merlin pointed out, struggling to rise until Arthur reached down and lifted him up, “You promised the Disir to make magic and physics both welcome in Albion.”

“Well,” said Arthur, noting Merlin was not brushing himself off, and obligingly doing it for him. “Magic and physics is not the same as men and women. If those continue fighting, I don’t know how much I can do about it.”

“Nag them,” said Morgause, rather cheerfully for someone who’d been in a hard magical battle for hours. “You’ll be King, and in a position to do some good.”

“Eventually.” Arthur brushed the front of Merlin’s trousers one last time, enjoying the result, then pulled him close in a hug for a minute before he turned to watch Uther, haranguing one of the police. It occurred to him that Ygraine would probably have made a much better modern King, no matter how well Uther would have conducted himself in the time of swords and magic. He put a fond hand on Excalibur’s hilt, and decided to have long talks with his mother as often as possible.

“Well, we could speed that up,” Morgana began, presumably helpful.

Arthur felt Merlin stiffen beside him, and patted him surreptitiously on his butt. “No, you can’t,” he said. “The King is my father, and if you do anything to him besides say ‘Yes, your majesty,’ I’ll set Merlin on you. I mean it. You can’t start a new era by murder.”

“Many have,” Morgause pointed out, but she was trying not to smile. “You just did. Morgana, love, I think we’ll have many more things to do to bring the Goddess back to glory than hasten Uther’s demise.” Then she leaned closer to her and whispered, “and many others to kill, perhaps.” Arthur overheard this, and started to say something, then held his tongue. For one thing, Morgause specialized in provoking reactions, so it might not mean anything. For another, he didn’t want to worry today. He wanted to go to bed with Merlin and snuggle, and if something more than snuggling came up, well, that would be comfort and release enough for a long time. But most of all, as she’d pointed out, he’d killed, though it wasn’t murder, but self defense and defense of his own. He knew he’d get away with it, considering all the witnesses. He knew many kings had begun their new lives by killing. But that didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Your place or mine?” he asked Merlin, who looked surprised, since a couple of hours ago, before the interrogations of Merlin and then both of them, they’d planned to go to his. But he’d had enough. Snubbing that DI who was trying to get Merlin to trip up on his tale – leaving out the Disir, but very much putting in the dangerous faculty – had taken his last ounce of energy.

“It had best be yours, Arthur,” Morgana said, returning to her brisk self. “Because Alice and Finna are having their Yule party for the staff, remember? And you need to make an appearance.”

Arthur’s heart sank. He didn’t feel like smiling and chatting and indubitably answering infinite numbers of questions, even though that sounded far more pleasant than going home with his family tonight and having That Conversation.

He glanced over at Merlin, whose hands were in his trousers, boredly pushing a rock around with his boots and waiting for Arthur to decide. He didn’t look like the most powerful sorcerer on Earth. Yet returning magic to the land completely depended on this scruffy, dirty, grass-stained boy. And, of course, on Arthur. Which he was certain he’d be able to do, once he got Merlin cleaned up a little.

“My place,” he agreed.

Uther’s state car had been gone, which Arthur realized only when it arrived again, and disgorged all three of Arthur’s bodyguards. They were indubitably pissed off for having been gotten rid of. But the King waved them over to him, so he wouldn’t have to worry about them for at least 10 minutes. Of course, at that time they’d be angry and miserable. The King wouldn’t sack them for something Arthur had done, but his tongue lashings were famous, and old school military in nature.

They started back through crime type country. Sigan’s body was lying under a plastic tarp. Arthur glanced at it, shuddering as he thought how the man had become a body.

“You had to, Arthur,” Merlin said, clearly in tune.

“I know.” And that was a comfort, really. So was having Merlin alive and in apparently fair shape, next to him. He might have to kill again to save Merlin, and he would. Arthur made a note to add some other weapons training than medieval swordplay to his collection.

“Do you think he’s really gone?”

“Well, this body is. His soul is... where it used to be, in a crystal, in a locket around his neck. I think just in case I’m going to imprison Monmouth’s and Aredian’s souls in a couple of his rings, if the police will let me. I intend to find a way to release what’s already in those crystals, too. But those things can wait. I couldn’t do it tonight anyway. I’m knackered.”

Ygraine intercepted them. She had been watching Uther harangue the bodyguards.

“Owain will be okay,” she said, referring to her own. Arthur felt ashamed he hadn’t even remember the bodyguard he’d half carried out of the building.

“Good. Mum, I don’t intend to come back for Yule tonight. I’m drained, and still have duties to perform at Sisters.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight’s their Yule party. I have to go – I’m the Day Manager.”

His mother looked at him fondly. “Yes, you are. Sometimes you’re very like your father, dear.”

Arthur looked over to where the King stood shouting, his face red, his hands waving, and shuttered. “I don’t yell at my staff for every minor infraction.”

Merlin coughed, and somehow the words “yes you do,” sounded in the middle of it.

Ygraine turned to him. “My boy, I’m delighted to meet you with Arthur at last. You did very well today.”

Merlin blushed to the roots of his hair and mumbled something modest.

“No, I mean it. And while I don’t appear to be very sensitive to magic, it was clear something dangerous was going on, and you were putting a stop to it.”

“Arthur saved the day,” Merlin managed. “He’s the hero.”

“I think there was enough heroism for both of you.” Her sharp eyes rested on him, and then she smiled. “You and Arthur are both going to the party?”

“Yes, and then sleeping. It’s been a long day.”

“True. We’ll have our Yule tomorrow then, at twilight. I will expect you there. Arthur will advise you on dress.”

“Father –“ Arthur said.

“I’ll deal with your father,” Ygraine responded. Arthur had no doubt she would. “You deserve your rest, and of course you must go to the celebration at Sisters. If Merlin makes the coffee, I might even drop by. After all, you technically need guards, although I’m not so sure you do while Merlin is by. Not to mention you do very well with that enormous sword.”

Arthur put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Mum. We’ll avoid any more trouble for the next 24 hours, I promise.”

She smiled. “You’ll be asleep for most of that, I hope.” Then she held out her hand to Merlin. “I look forward to seeing much more of you, Merlin. Plan on coming by in the New Year to discuss what role you may play in the College.”

Merlin took her hand and shook it awkwardly. “Thank you, Professor Pendragon.” He thought it amusing, even in his exhausted state, to think that “Professor” was a far more important title than Queen here.

Arthur tugged him away. Uther seemed to be winding down, and he preferred not to be caught.

They walked the short distance to Sisters, on what would have been a quiet night if not for the shouting and flashing of cameras following them.

Arthur held Merlin’s hand. Merlin let him.

They didn’t say anything on their walk, appreciating the first spits of snow from the sky, and the scent of evergreen from the garlands the municipal authorities had decreed would decorate each lamp post.

The snow began to fall more heavily as they reached Sisters. Arthur paused in the doorway, his face lit.

“What’s wrong?”

“Look up.” Among the green branches and holly hung a large stem of something else, green, with white berries on it.

“Mistletoe.”

“Precisely. And there’s only one way to chase all that parasitism and poison away, after someone accidentally hung it there.” Arthur pulled him in for a kiss, and Merlin adjusted gladly.

Behind them, even more camera lights started flashing. Arthur didn’t care.

 

MYSTERIOUS FORCES: EXCALIBUR PARK HAS STONE RETURNED TO PLINTH

Yet more mystery: the stone now has what is apparently crystalline granite in parts, and new inscription in modern Welsh: Until the evil buried in this stone escapes, Albion is free, and the King will guard and defend the magic of Albion and Gramarye. Blessed Be.

 

 

> PRINCE OF ALBION ENGAGED? TO ANOTHER MAN?
> 
> As you can see from the picture caught on camera by one of our staff, the future head of the Church of Albion has deviated slightly from one of its most important precepts: Thou shalt not be involved in a same sex relationship.
> 
> In this case, the attractive seducer is named Merlin Emrys. Rumours are that he works with the Prince as a lowly barista.
> 
> “This just goes to show why Prince Arthur should not be doing menial labour,” a confidential source said. “He meets other menials.”
> 
> Prince Arthur had no comment, except to say, “We all owe our lives to Merlin Emrys, so get that camera out of his face or you’ll be sorry.” Since the Prince has taken to wearing an extremely sharp and serviceable sword, which actually killed one of the faculty of the College of Magical Studies, this was a credible threat.
> 
> The Palace has had nothing to say, except “We believe Prince Arthur’s relationship with Mr. Emrys to be longstanding, and based on mutual affection. Nothing more will be revealed at this time.”
> 
> The Prince seems set to rock the world with a gay relationship. Favorite us to keep up with the latest on the royals!

Merlin, is our relationship based on mutual affection? If so, where did you put my socks?  
  
You'll find them somewhere in the bed, clodpole. You removed them yourself. I told you not to, remember? Just sniff around and you’ll find them. What do socks have to do with proving affection?  
  
BTW, yes it’s mutual. I love you, and you’re besotted with me.  
  
Hurry home, and you’ll find which of us is besotted.  
  
That doesn’t even make sense!  
  
Neither does your face.  
  


 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the work skin designer for [A03 stickies](https://archiveofourown.org/series/458134), which I have used so enthusiastically in this story -- and to all html specialists everywhere, particularly my currently-anonymous beta. The "spells" used are in Welsh, because Merlin never studied spellbooks in this time (all of them being hidden somewhere in the College of Magical Studies) and is a Welsh native speaker. The other sorcerers imitate him in the hope that's why Merlin's magic works. 
> 
> I was going to have as story setting the traditional Oxford (and the UK) but it turned out that geographically it simply wasn't going to work. So it's an AU, Oxford is Oxbridge, and the UK is Albion, though some have another name for it, which doesn't quite fit non-AU usage (Gramarye, which actually means the practice of magic, not the land of magic, from what I've read. Nevertheless, AU.)
> 
> Yule this year is on 12/21 Common Era, and is a long holiday which celebrates the longest night of the year and the returning of the sun which follows. Holly, Mistletoe, decorated trees, a special log for the fire, and other customs are sacred to the season, and the holiday itself is at least a thousand years older than Christianity. The Old Religion seems to parallel the so-called "pagan" religions where the Mother was the creator of all; the New is Christianity, which like all monotheistic religions I know evolved into a patriarchal religion where the value of women deteriorated. Watch _The Magic Flute_ and interpret it as the loss of the mother and the power of women, and the rise of men, and you will see that it, like _The Taming of the Shrew,_ is a tragedy, not a comedy.
> 
> Bless the darkness. And the sun. [And here is a nice song to listen to and celebrate their return](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CnUGaH51IA). [And here for a few days later](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_KiHRHwaAs).


End file.
